Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic fury. Congenital idiot—spidery congenital idiot! Seven months at fifteen pounds a week—to be tracked down as his own wife’s lover! Guilty look! He threw the window open.

“It’s hot,” he said, and came back to his seat.

Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed.

“I doubt if that’s quite good enough,” he said, drawling the words, “with no name or address. I think you may let that lady have a rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end.” Whether Polteed had spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter. ‘Guilty look!’ Damnation!

Mr. Polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: “I assure you we have put it through sometimes on less than that. It’s Paris, you know. Attractive woman living alone. Why not risk it, sir? We might screw it up a peg.”

Soames had sudden insight. The fellow’s professional zeal was stirred: ‘Greatest triumph of my career; got a man his divorce through a visit to his own wife’s bedroom! Something to talk of there, when I retire!’ And for one wild moment he thought: ‘Why not?’ After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet and a guilty look!

“I’m not authorised to take any risk!” he said shortly.

Mr. Polteed looked up.

“Pity,” he said, “quite a pity! That other affair seemed very costive.”

Soames rose.

“Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a mare’s nest. Good-morning!”

Mr. Polteed’s eye glinted at the words ‘mare’s nest!’

“Very good. You shall be kept informed.”

And Soames was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous business! Laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on them. Full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk roused him with the draft prospectus of a new issue of shares, very desirable, in Manifold and Topping’s. That afternoon he left work early and made his way to the Restaurant Bretagne. Only Madame Lamotte was in. Would Monsieur have tea with her?

Soames bowed.

When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he said abruptly:

“I want a talk with you, Madame.”

The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected such words.

“I have to ask you something first: That young doctor—what’s his name? Is there anything between him and Annette?”

Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet—clear-cut, black, hard, shining.

“Annette is young,” she said; “so is monsieur le docteur. Between young people things move quickly; but Annette is a good daughter. Ah! what a jewel of a nature!”

The least little smile twisted Soames’ lips.

“Nothing definite, then?”

“But definite—no, indeed! The young man is veree nice, but—what would you? There is no money at present.”

She raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; Soames did the same. Their eyes met.

“I am a married man,” he said, “living apart from my wife for many years. I am seeking to divorce her.”

Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed! What tragic things there were! The entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer species of contempt in Soames.

“I am a rich man,” he added, fully conscious that the remark was not in good taste. “It is useless to say more at present, but I think you understand.”

Madame’s eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked at him very straight.

“Ah! ca-mais nous avons le temps!” was all she said. “Another little cup?” Soames refused, and, taking his leave, walked westward.

He had got that off his mind; she would not let Annette commit herself with that cheerful young ass until…! But what chance of his ever being able to say: ‘I’m free.’ What chance? The future had lost all semblance of reality. He felt like a fly, entangled in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air with pitiful eyes.

He was short of exercise, and wandered on to Kensington Gardens, and down Queen’s Gate towards Chelsea. Perhaps she had gone back to her flat. That at all events he could find out. For since that last and most ignominious repulse his wounded self-respect had taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. He arrived before the little Mansions at the dinner-hour. No need to enquire! A grey-haired lady was watering the flower-boxes in her window. It was evidently let. And he walked slowly past again, along the river—an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony and comfort, except within his heart.

On the afternoon that Soames crossed to France a cablegram was received by Jolyon at Robin Hill:

It reached a household already agitated by the imminent departure of June, whose berth was booked for the following day. She was, indeed, in the act of confiding Eric Cobbley and his family to her father’s care when the message arrived.

The resolution to become a Red Cross nurse, taken under stimulus of Jolly’s enlistment, had been loyally fulfilled with the irritation and regret which all Forsytes feel at what curtails their individual liberties. Enthusiastic at first about the ‘wonderfulness’ of the work, she had begun after a month to feel that she could train herself so much better than others could train her. And if Holly had not insisted on following her example, and being trained too, she must inevitably have ‘cried off.’ The departure of Jolly and Val with their troop in April had further stiffened her failing resolve. But now, on the point of departure, the thought of leaving Eric Cobbley, with a wife and two children, adrift in the cold waters of an unappreciative world weighed on her so that she was still in danger of backing out. The reading of that cablegram, with its disquieting reality, clinched the matter. She saw herself already nursing Jolly—for of course they would let her nurse her own brother! Jolyon—ever wide and doubtful—had no such hope. Poor June!

Could any Forsyte of her generation grasp how rude and brutal life was? Ever since he knew of his boy’s arrival at Cape Town the thought of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in Jolyon. He could not get reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was in danger all the time. The cablegram, grave though it was, was almost a relief. He was now safe from bullets, anyway. And yet—this enteric was a virulent disease! The Times was full of deaths therefrom. Why could he not be lying out there in that up-country hospital, and his boy safe at home? The un-Forsytean self-sacrifice of his three children, indeed, had quite bewildered Jolyon. He would eagerly change places with Jolly, because he loved his boy; but no such personal motive was influencing them. He could only think that it marked the decline of the Forsyte type.

Late that afternoon Holly came out to him under the old oak-tree. She had grown up very much during these last months of hospital training away from home. And, seeing her approach, he thought: ‘She has more sense than June, child though she is; more wisdom. Thank God she isn’t going out.’ She had seated herself in the swing, very silent and still. ‘She feels this,’ thought Jolyon, ‘as much as I’ and, seeing her eyes fixed on him, he said: “Don’t take it to heart too much, my child. If he weren’t ill, he might be in much greater danger.”

Holly got out of the swing.

“I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly enlisted and went out.”

“How’s that?”

“When you were away in Paris, Val Dartie and I fell in love. We used to ride in Richmond Park; we got engaged. Jolly found it out, and thought he ought to stop it; so he dared Val to enlist. It was all my fault, Dad; and I want to go out too. Because if anything happens to either of them I should feel awful. Besides, I’m just as much trained as June.”