The word ‘Poultry’ above the passing citizens brought him back to reality.

‘Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,’ in black letters on a ground the colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up the stone stairs muttering:  “Fusty musty ownerships!  Well, we couldn’t do without them!”

“I want Mr. Soames Forsyte,” he said to the boy who opened the door.

“What name?”

“Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.”

The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte with a beard, and vanished.

The offices of ‘Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte’ had slowly absorbed the offices of ‘Tooting and Bowles,’ and occupied the whole of the first floor.

The firm consisted now of nothing but Soames and a number of managing and articled clerks.  The complete retirement of James some six years ago had accelerated business, to which the final touch of speed had been imparted when Bustard dropped off, worn out, as many believed, by the suit of ‘Fryer versus Forsyte,’ more in Chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its beneficiaries.  Soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, had never permitted it to worry him; on the contrary, he had long perceived that Providence had presented him therein with L200 a year net in perpetuity, and—­why not?

When Jolyon entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of holdings in Consols, which in view of the rumours of war he was going to advise his companies to put on the market at once, before other companies did the same.  He looked round, sidelong, and said: 

“How are you?  Just one minute.  Sit down, won’t you?” And having entered three amounts, and set a ruler to keep his place, he turned towards Jolyon, biting the side of his flat forefinger....

“Yes?” he said.

“I have seen her.”

Soames frowned.

“Well?”

“She has remained faithful to memory.”

Having said that, Jolyon was ashamed.  His cousin had flushed a dusky yellowish red.  What had made him tease the poor brute!

“I was to tell you she is sorry you are not free.  Twelve years is a long time.  You know your law, and what chance it gives you.”  Soames uttered a curious little grunt, and the two remained a full minute without speaking.  ‘Like wax!’ thought Jolyon, watching that close face, where the flush was fast subsiding.  ’He’ll never give me a sign of what he’s thinking, or going to do.  Like wax!’ And he transferred his gaze to a plan of that flourishing town, ‘By-Street on Sea,’ the future existence of which lay exposed on the wall to the possessive instincts of the firm’s clients.  The whimsical thought flashed through him:  ’I wonder if I shall get a bill of costs for this—­“To attending Mr. Jolyon Forsyte in the matter of my divorce, to receiving his account of his visit to my wife, and to advising him to go and see her again, sixteen and eightpence."’

Suddenly Soames said:  “I can’t go on like this.  I tell you, I can’t go on like this.”  His eyes were shifting from side to side, like an animal’s when it looks for way of escape.  ‘He really suffers,’ thought Jolyon; ‘I’ve no business to forget that, just because I don’t like him.’