June, of course, had not seen this, but, though not yet nineteen, she was notorious. Had she not said to Mrs Soames – who was always so beautifully dressed – that feathers were vulgar? Mrs Soames had actually given up wearing feathers, so dreadfully downright was dear June!
These misgivings, this disapproval and perfectly genuine distrust, did not prevent the Forsytes from gathering to old Jolyon’s invitation. An ‘at home’ at Stanhope Gate was a great rarity; none had been held for twelve years, not indeed since old Mrs Jolyon died.
Never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms against a common peril. Like cattle when a dog comes into the field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared to run upon and trample the invader to death. They had come, too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way – ‘What are you givin’? Nicholas is givin’ spoons!’ – so very much depended on the bridegroom. If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect them. In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived at on the Stock Exchange – the exact niceties being regulated at Timothy’s commodious red-brick residence in Bayswater, overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester.
The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the simple mention of the hat. How impossible and wrong would it have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should ever characterize the great upper middle class, to feel otherwise than uneasy!
The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance as though he found what was going on around him unusual. He had an air, too, of having a joke all to himself.
George, speaking aside to his brother Eustace, said:
‘Looks as if he might make a bolt of it – the dashing Buccaneer!’
This ‘very singular-looking man’, as Mrs Small afterwards called him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen in the lion-house at the Zoo. He had sherry-coloured eyes, disconcertingly inattentive at times. Old Jolyon’s coachman, after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to the butler:
‘I dunno what to make of ’im. Looks to me for all the world like an ’alf-tame leopard.’
And every now and then a Forsyte would come up, sidle round, and take a look at him.
June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity – a little bit of a thing, as somebody once said, ‘all hair and spirit’, with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair.
A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at these two with a shadowy smile.
Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of all men near were fastened on it Her figure swayed, so balanced that the very air seemed to set it moving. There was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft. But it was at her lips – asking a question, giving an answer, with that shadowy smile – that men looked; they were sensitive lips, sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and perfume like the warmth and perfume of a flower.
The engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this passive goddess. It was Bosinney who first noticed her, and asked her name.
June took her lover up to the woman with the beautiful figure.
‘Irene is my greatest chum,’ she said: ‘Please be good friends, you two!’
At the little lady’s command they all three smiled; and while they were smiling, Soames Forsyte, silently appearing from behind the woman with the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said:
‘Ah! introduce me too!’
He was seldom, indeed, far from Irene’s side at public functions, and even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, could be seen following her about with his eyes, in which were strange expressions of watchfulness and longing.
At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks on the piece of china.
‘I wonder at Jolyon’s allowing this engagement,’ he said to Aunt Ann. ‘They tell me there’s no chance of their getting married for years. This young Bōsinney’ (he made the word a dactyl in opposition to general usage of a short o) ‘has got nothing. When Winifred married Dartie, I made him bring every penny into settlement – lucky thing, too – they’d ha’ had nothing by this time!’