And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises, his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now—­a—­ah! falling, o—­oh! sliding—­down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry:  “You must know—­I love you!” Must know—­indeed, a pretty...?  Love!  Hah!

Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him.  He had a taste in his mouth.  Where was he?

Damme!  He had been asleep!

He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.

Those young people—­where had they got to?  His left leg had pins and needles.

“Adolf!” The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.

He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming.

Irene was in front; that young fellow—­what had they nicknamed him—­’The Buccaneer?’ looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn’t wonder.  Serve him right, taking her down all that way to look at the house!  The proper place to look at a house from was the lawn.

They saw him.  He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to encourage them.  But they had stopped.  What were they standing there for, talking—­talking?  They came on again.  She had been, giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that—­a great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.

He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare.  That young man looked very queer!

“You’ll never make anything of this!” he said tartly, pointing at the mansion;—­“too newfangled!”

Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as “an extravagant sort of fellow very odd way of looking at you—­a bumpy beggar!”

What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state; possibly Bosinney’s, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin’s conception of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman.

He brightened up at the mention of tea.  He had a contempt for tea—­his brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it—­but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to drink anything.  He longed to inform Irene of the taste in his mouth—­she was so sympathetic—­but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked it against his palate.

In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches over a kettle.  He left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of champagne.  Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said:  “Why, you’re quite a Monte Cristo!” This celebrated novel—­one of the half-dozen he had read—­had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.