“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, she looked at him.  The worst had happened.

“Soames!”

Soames turned his head a very little.

“How are you?” he said.  “Haven’t seen you for twenty years.”

“No.  Whatever made you come here?”

“My sins,” said Soames.  “What stuff!”

“Stuff?  Oh, yes—­of course; it hasn’t arrived yet.

“It never will,” said Soames; “it must be making a dead loss.”

“Of course it is.”

“How d’you know?”

“It’s my Gallery.”

Soames sniffed from sheer surprise.

“Yours?  What on earth makes you run a show like this?”

“I don’t treat Art as if it were grocery.”

Soames pointed to the Future Town.  “Look at that!  Who’s going to live in a town like that, or with it on his walls?”

June contemplated the picture for a moment.

“It’s a vision,” she said.

“The deuce!”

There was silence, then June rose.  ‘Crazylooking creature!’ he thought.

“Well,” he said, “you’ll find your young stepbrother here with a woman I used to know.  If you take my advice, you’ll close this exhibition.”