She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant.  She had the right to know.  She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to Bosinney’s number.  Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully.

At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to the bannisters, stood listening.  No sound came from above.

With a very white face she mounted the last flight.  She saw the door, with his name on the plate.  And the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated.

The full meaning of her conduct came to her.  She felt hot all over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves.

She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend.  Leaning against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage.  No! she refused to go down.  Did it matter what people thought of her?  They would never know!  No one would help her if she did not help herself!  She would go through with it.

Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the bell.  The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her.  It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands.

Presently she stole down, out into the air.  She felt as though she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as quickly as she could.  The people she met seemed to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and suddenly—­over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Square—­she saw Bosinney himself.

She made a movement to cross into the traffic.  Their eyes met, and he raised his hat.  An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on.

And June stood motionless, looking after him.

CHAPTER XIII

PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE

‘One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.’

In the upper room at French’s, where a Forsyte could still get heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.

Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days.  Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight.  They had only recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours, like a gentleman.