"Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir."
"No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be dining out."
The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly
turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the
carved oak rug chest in the hall.
Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. Mrs. Septimus Small. Mrs. Baynes. Mr.
Solomon Thornworthy. Lady Bellis. Miss Hermione Bellis. Miss Winifred
Bellis. Miss Ella Bellis.
Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten all
familiar things. The words 'no message--a trunk, and a bag,' played
a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she had left no
message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a
time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his
wife's room.
Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect
order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had
made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her
slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as
though expecting her.
On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her
dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some mistake.
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