them, had never seen them smile.  Grudgingly he admitted her still beautiful and in figure almost as young as ever.  And how that boy smiled back at her!  Emotion squeezed Soames’ heart.  The sight infringed his sense of justice.  He grudged her that boy’s smile—­it went beyond what Fleur 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 by 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, 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.”