At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to the banisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.
With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated.
The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves.
She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her? They would never know! No one would help her if she did not help herself! She would go through with it.
Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands.
Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as quick as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and suddenly – over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpelier Square – she saw Bosinney himself.
She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on.
And June stood motionless, looking after him.
Chapter Thirteen
PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE
‘ONE mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.’
In the upper room at French’s, where a Forsyte could still get heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.
Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, prime chump, with a floury potato, without seeing your neighbours, like a gentleman.
He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the West End. He felt that he should relish his soup – the entire morning had been given to winding up the estate of an old friend.
After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began: ‘How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You’d better take her. I should think there’ll be a lot that’ll want seeing to.’
Without looking up, Soames answered: ‘She won’t go.’
‘Won’t go? What’s the meaning of that? She’s going to live in the house, isn’t she?’
Soames made no reply.
‘I don’t know what’s coming to women nowadays,’ mumbled James; ‘I never used to have any trouble with them. She’s had too much liberty. She’s spoiled –’
Soames lifted his eyes: ‘I won’t have anything said against her,’ he said unexpectedly.
The silence was only broken now by the supping of James’s soup.
The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped him.
‘That’s not the way to serve port,’ he said; ‘take them away, and bring the bottle.’
Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts.
‘Your mother’s in bed,’ he said; ‘you can have the carriage to take you down. I should think Irene’d like the drive. This young Bosinney’ll be there, I suppose, to show you over?’
Soames nodded.
‘I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he’s made finishing off,’ pursued James. ‘I’ll just drive round and pick you both up.’
‘I am going down by train,’ replied Soames. ‘If you like to drive round and see, Irene might go with you, I can’t tell.’
He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid.