Irene came out at once, and stepped in—­he afterward described it at Timothy’s—­“as light as—­er—­Taglioni, no fuss about it, no wanting this or wanting that;” and above all, Swithin dwelt on this, staring at Mrs. Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a good deal, “no silly nervousness!” To Aunt Hester he portrayed Irene’s hat.  “Not one of your great flopping things, sprawling about, and catching the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, but a neat little—­” he made a circular motion of his hand, “white veil—­capital taste.”

“What was it made of?” inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress.

“Made of?” returned Swithin; “now how should I know?”

He sank into silence so profound that Aunt Hester began to be afraid he had fallen into a trance.  She did not try to rouse him herself, it not being her custom.

‘I wish somebody would come,’ she thought; ’I don’t like the look of him!’

But suddenly Swithin returned to life.  “Made of” he wheezed out slowly, “what should it be made of?”

They had not gone four miles before Swithin received the impression that Irene liked driving with him.  Her face was so soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the spring light, and whenever he spoke she raised them to him and smiled.

On Saturday morning Soames had found her at her writing-table with a note written to Swithin, putting him off.  Why did she want to put him off? he asked.  She might put her own people off when she liked, he would not have her putting off his people!

She had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said:  “Very well!”

And then she began writing another.  He took a casual glance presently, and saw that it was addressed to Bosinney.

“What are you writing to him about?” he asked.

Irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly:  “Something he wanted me to do for him!”

“Humph!” said Soames,—­“Commissions!”

“You’ll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!” He said no more.

Swithin opened his eyes at the mention of Robin Hill; it was a long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, before the rush at the Club began; the new chef took more trouble with an early dinner—­a lazy rascal!

He would like to have a look at the house, however.  A house appealed to any Forsyte, and especially to one who had been an auctioneer.  After all he said the distance was nothing.  When he was a younger man he had had rooms at Richmond for many years, kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to business every day of his life.

Four-in-hand Forsyte they called him!  His T-cart, his horses had been known from Hyde Park Corner to the Star and Garter.  The Duke of Z.... wanted to get hold of them, would have given him double the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when you have it, eh?  A look of solemn pride came portentously on his shaven square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up collar, like a turkey-cock preening himself.