gave him, and it was undeserved. Their
son might have been his son; Fleur might have been her daughter, if she
had kept straight! He lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all the
better! A reminder of her conduct in the presence of her son, who
probably knew nothing of it, would be a salutary touch from the finger
of that Nemesis which surely must soon or late visit her! Then,
half-conscious that such a thought was extravagant for a Forsyte of his
age, Soames took out his watch. Past four! Fleur was late. She had gone
to his niece Imogen Cardigan's, and there they would keep her smoking
cigarettes and gossiping, and that. He heard the boy laugh, and say
eagerly: "I say, Mum, is this one of Auntie June's lame ducks?"

"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling."

The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her use
it. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them something of
George Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the folds
of her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. She moved on.

"It IS a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again.

Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsyte
chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a
glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair.
Better than they deserved--those two! They passed from his view into
the next room, and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but saw
it not. A little smile snarled up his lips. He was despising the
vehemence of his own feelings after all these years. Ghosts! And yet as
one grew old--was there anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes,
there was Fleur! He fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; but
she would keep him waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware of
a sort of human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-green
djibbah with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all
streaked with grey. She was talking to the Gallery attendants, and
something familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her hair,
her spirit--something which suggested a thin Skye terrier just before
its dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin June--and coming straight
to his recess! She sat down beside him, deep in thought, took out a
tablet, and made a pencil note. Soames sat unmoving. A confounded thing
cousinship! "Disgusting!" he heard her murmur; then, as if resenting
the presence of an overhearing stranger, sh