, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an
alluring strangeness.

Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife's neck. The hands of
Swithin's watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight
behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time--he had had no
lunch--and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him.

"It's not like Jolyon to be late!" he said to Irene, with uncontrollable
vexation. "I suppose it'll be June keeping him!"

"People in love are always late," she answered.

Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks.

"They've no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!"

And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive
generations seemed to mutter and grumble.

"Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin," said Irene
softly.

Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed star,
made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the star. He had a pretty
taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically devised
to distract his attention.

"Who gave you that?" he asked.

"Soames."

There was no change in her face, but Swithin's pale eyes bulged as though
he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight.

"I dare say you're dull at home," he said. "Any day you like to come and
dine with me, I'll give you as good a bottle of wine as you'll get in
London."

"Miss June Forsyte--Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!... Mr. Boswainey!..."

Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice:

"Dinner, now--dinner!"

He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her since she
was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was placed between
Irene and his fiancee. On the other side of June was James with Mrs.
Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, Nicholas with Hatty Chessman,
Soames with Mrs. Small, completing, the circle to Swithin again.

Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There are,
for instance, no hors d'oeuvre. The reason for this is unknown. Theory
among the younger members traces it to the disgraceful price of oysters;
it is more probably due to a desire to come to the point, to a good
practical sense deciding at once that hors d'oeuvre are but poor things.
The Jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park
Lane, are now and then unfaithful.

A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the
subsidence into