conversation with Winifred on trivial subjects. She was never more
composed in her manner and conversation than that evening.

A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene's flight, no view
was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course to
be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted in
relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that James's advice:
"Don't you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!" would, with here
and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only in Park
Lane, but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy's. Just as
it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of Forsytes all
over London, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of the
story.

In spite then of Emily's efforts, the dinner was served by Warmson and
the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and drank all he could
get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. James asked once
where June was, and what she was doing with herself in these days. No
one could tell him. He sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred
recounted how little Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he
brighten up.

"Ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. I don't know what'll become
of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little chap, I call
him!" But it was only a flash.

The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light,
which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal
ornament of the walls, a so-called 'Sea Piece by Turner,' almost entirely
composed of cordage and drowning men.

Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James' prehistoric port, but
as by the chill hand of some skeleton.

At ten o'clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said that
Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. His mother
kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a flush of
warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which whistled
desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear
steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting,
nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women
hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at
street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, oblivious;
his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gi