Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was at his best—­a thorough man of the world.

Winifred was already in her cab.  Dartie reflected that Bosinney would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn’t look sharp!  Suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the road.  Bosinney’s voice hissed in his ear:  “I am taking Irene back; do you understand?” He saw a face white with passion, and eyes that glared at him like a wild cat’s.

“Eh?” he stammered.  “What?  Not a bit.  You take my wife!”

“Get away!” hissed Bosinney—­“or I’ll throw you into the road!”

Dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow meant it.  In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress brushed his legs.  Bosinney stepped in after her.

“Go on!” he heard the Buccaneer cry.  The cabman flicked his horse.  It sprang forward.

Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab where his wife sat, he scrambled in.

“Drive on!” he shouted to the driver, “and don’t you lose sight of that fellow in front!”

Seated by his wife’s side, he burst into imprecations.  Calming himself at last with a supreme effort, he added:  “A pretty mess you’ve made of it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why on earth couldn’t you keep hold of him?  He’s mad with love; any fool can see that!”

He drowned Winifred’s rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty; nor was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad, in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her brother, Irene, Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, and cursed the day when he had ever married.

Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at the end of which he lapsed into sulky silence.  His angry eyes never deserted the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, haunted the darkness in front of him.

Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney’s passionate pleading—­that pleading which the man of the world’s conduct had let loose like a flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some garment had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like the eyes of a beaten child.  He could not hear Bosinney entreating, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand.

In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front.  The Darties saw Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up the steps with bent head.  She evidently had her key in her hand, for she disappeared at once.  It was impossible to tell whether she had turned to speak to Bosinney.