it in wondering what painter could have done it justice.  The white-grey water was like—­like the belly of a fish!  Was it possible that this world on which he looked was all private property, except the water—­and even that was tapped!  No tree, no shrub, not a blade of grass, not a bird or beast, not even a fish that was not owned.  And once on a time all this was jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and sported without human cognizance to give them names; rotting luxuriance had rioted where those tall, carefully planted woods came down to the water, and marsh-misted reeds on that far side had covered all the pasture.  Well! they had got it under, kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in lawyers’ offices.  And a good thing too!  But once in a way, as now, the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any human who chanced to be awake:  ’Out of my unowned loneliness you all came, into it some day you will all return.’

And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new to him and so very old:  the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its past—­went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp.  When he had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs: 

“On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, in his ninety-first year.  Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate.  No flowers by request.”

“On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of Soames Forsyte, of a daughter.”  And underneath on the blottingpaper he traced the word “son.”

It was eight o’clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to the house.  Bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight.

He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and dark clothes.

Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down.

She looked at his clothes, said, “Don’t tell me!” and pressed his hand.  “Annette is prettee well.  But the doctor say she can never have no more children.  You knew that?” Soames nodded.  “It’s a pity.  Mais la petite est adorable.  Du cafe?”

Soames got away from her as soon as he could.  She offended him—­solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear—­French.  He could not bear her vowels, her ‘r’s’; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if it were his fault that Annette could never bear him a son!  His fault!  He even resented her cheap adoration of the daughter he had not yet seen.

Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child!

One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment.  On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it—­fastidious possessor that he was.  He was afraid of what Annette was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the present and—­the future.