she had answered with that
maddening smile of hers "Oh, no!"

Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen
her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late
to get out of his way.

"Have you seen 'The Buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on the
warpath--hair cut and everything!"

Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval
of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the
street.

A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung some
of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to the call
of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their black and
rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed Soames. Why
were they allowed to hang about; why didn't the bobby move them on?

But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart on
the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face,
under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.

Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches of
trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the street
lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other side,
so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden; and over
all, the sky, that wonderful London sky, dusted with the innumerable
reflection of countless lamps; a dome woven over between its stars with
the refraction of human needs and human fancies--immense mirror of pomp
and misery that night after night stretches its kindly mocking over miles
of houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over Forsytes, policemen,
and patient watchers in the streets.

Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the lighted
room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, June and her
grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They stood by the
doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon turning out at this
time of night! Why hadn't June come to Irene, as she usually did, and it
occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of June for a long time
now.

Watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so pale that
he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. Turning to see at what
she was looking, he saw his wife on Bosinney's arm, coming from the
conservatory at the end of the room. Her eyes were raised to his, as