help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love him!  But this!  Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette!  Many times these last months, especially since she had been growing frightened, he had wondered.  She had a will of her own, was selfish in her French way.  And yet—­so pretty!  What would she wish—­to take the risk.  ‘I know she wants the child,’ he thought.  ’If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards—­it’ll upset her terribly.  No more chance!  All for nothing!  Married life with her for years and years without a child.  Nothing to steady her!  She’s too young.  Nothing to look forward to, for her—­for me!  For me!’ He struck his hands against his chest!  Why couldn’t he think without bringing himself in—­get out of himself and see what he ought to do?  The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate.  Out of oneself!  Impossible!  Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space!  The very idea was ghastly, futile!  And touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment.  When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there’d be nothing in it!

He looked at his watch.  In half an hour the doctor would be back.  He must decide!  If against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards?  How face his own conscience?  It was his child that she was having.  If for the operation—­then he condemned them both to childlessness.  And for what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir?  And his father—­at death’s door, waiting for the news!  ‘It’s cruel!’ he thought; ’I ought never to have such a thing to settle!  It’s cruel!’ He turned towards the house.  Some deep, simple way of deciding!  He took out a coin, and put it back.  If he spun it, he knew he would not abide by what came up!  He went into the dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued.  The doctor had said there was a chance.  In here that chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves fall.  A fire was burning.  Soames unlocked the tantalus.  He hardly ever touched spirits, but now—­he poured himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood.  ’That fellow Jolyon,’ he thought; ’he had children already.  He has the woman I really loved; and now a son by her!  And I—­I’m asked to destroy my only child!  Annette can’t die; it’s not possible.  She’s strong!’

He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor’s carriage, and went out to him.  He had to wait for him to come downstairs.

“Well, doctor?”

“The situation’s the same.  Have you decided?”

“Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!”

“Not?  You understand—­the risk’s great?”

In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips.

“You said there was a chance?”