he stood more undecided than ever.  Shivers of anticipation ran through him; his tongue felt dry, his heart beat fast.  ‘I have no cause to be afraid,’ he thought.  And then the lawyer stirred within him.  Was he doing a foolish thing?  Ought he not to have arranged a formal meeting in the presence of her trustee?  No!  Not before that fellow Jolyon, who sympathised with her!  Never!  He crossed back into the doorway, and, slowly, to keep down the beating of his heart, mounted the single flight of stairs and rang the bell.  When the door was opened to him his sensations were regulated by the scent which came—­that perfume—­from away back in the past, bringing muffled remembrance:  fragrance of a drawing-room he used to enter, of a house he used to own—­perfume of dried rose-leaves and honey!

“Say, Mr. Forsyte,” he said, “your mistress will see me, I know.”  He had thought this out; she would think it was Jolyon!

When the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where the light was dim from one pearly-shaded sconce, and walls, carpet, everything was silvery, making the walled-in space all ghostly, he could only think ridiculously:  ‘Shall I go in with my overcoat on, or take it off?’ The music ceased; the maid said from the doorway: 

“Will you walk in, sir?”

Soames walked in.  He noted mechanically that all was still silvery, and that the upright piano was of satinwood.  She had risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys as if groping for support, had struck a sudden discord, held for a moment, and released.  The light from the shaded piano-candle fell on her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow.  She was in a black evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her shoulders—­he did not remember ever having seen her in black, and the thought passed through him:  ’She dresses even when she’s alone.’

“You!” he heard her whisper.

Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy.  Rehearsal served him not at all.  He simply could not speak.  He had never thought that the sight of this woman whom he had once so passionately desired, so completely owned, and whom he had not seen for twelve years, could affect him in this way.  He had imagined himself speaking and acting, half as man of business, half as judge.  And now it was as if he were in the presence not of a mere woman and erring wife, but of some force, subtle and elusive as atmosphere itself within him and outside.  A kind of defensive irony welled up in him.

“Yes, it’s a queer visit!  I hope you’re well.”

“Thank you.  Will you sit down?”

She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a window-seat, sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap.  Light fell on her there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely as he remembered them, strangely beautiful.

He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing.