Never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms against a common peril.  Like cattle when a dog comes into the field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared to run upon and trample the invader to death.  They had come, too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way:  ‘What are you givin’?  Nicholas is givin’ spoons!’—­so very much depended on the bridegroom.  If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect them.  In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived at on the Stock Exchange—­the exact niceties being regulated at Timothy’s commodious, red-brick residence in Bayswater, overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester.

The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the simple mention of the hat.  How impossible and wrong would it have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should ever characterize the great upper middle-class, to feel otherwise than uneasy!

The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance, as though he found what was going on around him unusual.  He had an air, too, of having a joke all to himself.  George, speaking aside to his brother, Eustace, said: 

“Looks as if he might make a bolt of it—­the dashing Buccaneer!”

This ‘very singular-looking man,’ as Mrs. Small afterwards called him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheek-bones, and hollow checks.  His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen in the Lion-house at the Zoo.  He had sherry-coloured eyes, disconcertingly inattentive at times.  Old Jolyon’s coachman, after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to the butler: 

“I dunno what to make of ’im.  Looks to me for all the world like an ’alf-tame leopard.”  And every now and then a Forsyte would come up, sidle round, and take a look at him.

June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity—­a little bit of a thing, as somebody once said, ‘all hair and spirit,’ with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair.

A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at these two with a shadowy smile.

Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of all men near were fastened on it.  Her figure swayed, so balanced that the very air seemed to set it moving.  There was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft.