A book was no good--in daily
papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. From the customary
events recorded in the journal he drew some comfort. 'Suicide of
an actress'--'Grave indisposition of a Statesman' (that chronic
sufferer)--'Divorce of an army officer'--'Fire in a colliery'--he read
them all. They helped him a little--prescribed by the greatest of all
doctors, our natural taste.
It was nearly seven when he heard her come in.
The incident of the night before had long lost its importance under
stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But now that Irene
was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing came back to him, and
he felt nervous at the thought of facing her.
She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her knees, its
high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick veil.
She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or stranger could
have passed more silently.
Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs. Forsyte was not coming
down; she was having the soup in her room.
For once Soames did not 'change'; it was, perhaps, the first time in
his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, and, not even
noticing them, he brooded long over his wine.
Pages:
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411