Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself.  He went up with a dogged, white face.

The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his ringing, he could hear no sound.  He was obliged to descend, shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart.  Hailing a cab, he told the man to drive to Park Lane.

On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for months!  He tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation unmade.

The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master had told him they were both expected to dinner.

Soames answered:  “No.  Mrs. Forsyte has a cold.”

The butler was sorry.

Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked:  “Anybody here to dinner, Warmson?”

“Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir.”

Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously at him.  His composure gave way.

“What are you looking at?” he said.  “What’s the matter with me, eh?”

The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded like:  “Nothing, sir, I’m sure, sir,” and stealthily withdrew.

Soames walked upstairs.  Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went straight up to his mother’s and father’s bedroom.

James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife’s bodice.  Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason.  He—­he himself had never—­never been asked to....

He heard his father’s voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying:  “Who’s that?  Who’s there?  What d’you want?” His mother’s:  “Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master’ll never get done.”

He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely: 

“It’s I—­Soames!”

He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily’s:  “Well, my dear boy?” and James’, as he dropped the hook:  “What, Soames!  What’s brought you up?  Aren’t you well?”

He answered mechanically:  “I’m all right,” and looked at them, and it seemed impossible to bring out his news.

James, quick to take alarm, began:  “You don’t look well.  I expect you’ve taken a chill—­it’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder.  Your mother’ll give you....”

But Emily broke in quietly:  “Have you brought Irene?”