The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question:  “Where is your mistress?” told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag.

Snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he confronted her: 

“What?” he exclaimed; “what’s that you said?” Suddenly recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added:  “What message did she leave?” and noticed with secret terror the startled look of the maid’s eyes.

“Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir.”

“No message; very well, thank you, that will do.  I shall be dining out.”

The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the carved oak rug chest in the hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher.  Mrs. Septimus Small.  Mrs. Baynes.  Mr. Solomon Thornworthy.  Lady Bellis.  Miss Hermione Bellis.  Miss Winifred Bellis.  Miss Ella Bellis.

Who the devil were all these people?  He seemed to have forgotten all familiar things.  The words ‘no message—­a trunk, and a bag,’ played a hide-and-seek in his brain.  It was incredible that she had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his wife’s room.

Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect order.  On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as though expecting her.

On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her dressing bag, his own present.  There must, then, be some mistake.  What bag had she taken?  He went to the bell to summon Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself.

He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.

Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror.

He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water, and began feverishly washing.

Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy seized him again.

Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street.

He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her at Bosinney’s.  But if he should?  His power of decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her there.

It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he....