aving love, like
measles, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all
time--as with measles, on a soothing mixture of butter and honey--in the
arms of wedlock.

Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames
reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had
hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily,
in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house
in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his
married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the
small house,--a Forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it
at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.

He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts
about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, had nothing,
and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that
strange, irresistible attraction which had drawn him on, till he felt
he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so
neatly back, the fair arms emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair
form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference.

James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the
river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest
experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.

Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had
forgotten.

And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son's
wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward
appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying
with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror.

He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than
trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in
his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it.
It was all their nonsense. She didn't get on with Soames as well as she
might, but she was a good little thing--a good little thing!

Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a nice
little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking
his lips, "Yes, yes--she and young Dyson; they tell me they're living at
Monte Carlo!"

But the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its
present, or its future--had never struck him. What it m