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Pouting at Swithin, she said:
Ann has been asking for you. You havent been near us for an age!
Swithin put his thumbs within the armholes of his waistcoat, and replied:
Anns getting very shaky; she ought to have a doctor!
Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Forsyte!
Nicholas Forsyte, cocking his rectangular eyebrows, wore a smile. He had succeeded during the day in bringing to fruition a scheme for the employment of a tribe from Upper India in the gold-mines of Ceylon. A pet plan, carried at last in the teeth of great difficulties he was justly pleased. It would double the output of his mines, and, as he had often forcibly argued, all experience tended to show that a man must die; and whether he died of a miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of damp in the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little consequence, provided that by a change in his mode of life he benefited the British Empire.
His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his listener, he would add:
For want of a few hundred of these fellows we havent paid a dividend for years, and look at the price of the shares. I cant get ten shillings for them.
He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he had added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped Swithins hand, exclaiming in a jocular voice:
Well, so here we are again!
Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened jollity behind his back.
Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!
Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable.
Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you do?
His hand enclosed Irenes, and his eyes swelled. She was a pretty woman a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! Too good for that chap Soames!
The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that strange combination, provocative of mens glances, which is said to be the mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of her neck and shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an alluring strangeness.
Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wifes neck. The hands of Swithins watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time he had had no lunch and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him.
Its not like Jolyon to be late! he said to Irene, with uncontrollable vexation. I suppose itll be June keeping him!
People in love are always late, she answered.
Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks.
Theyve no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!
And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive generations seemed to mutter and grumble.
Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin, said Irene softly.
Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the star. He had a pretty taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically devised to distract his attention.
Who gave you that? he asked.
Soames.
There was no change in her face, but Swithins pale eyes bulged as though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight.
I dare say youre dull at home, he said. Any day you like to come and dine with me, Ill give you as good a bottle of wine as youll get in London.
Miss June Forsyte Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! Mr. Boswainey!
Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice:
Dinner, now dinner!
He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her since she was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was placed between Irene and his fiancee. On the other side of June was James with Mrs. Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, Nicholas with Hatty Chessman, Soames with Mrs. Small, completing, the circle to Swithin again.
Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There are, for instance, no hors doeuvre. The reason for this is unknown. Theory among the younger members traces it to the disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once that hors doeuvre are but poor things. The Jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park Lane, are now and then unfaithful.
A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first entree, but interspersed with remarks such as, Toms bad again; I cant tell whats the matter with him! I suppose Ann doesnt come down in the mornings? Whats the name of your doctor, Fanny? Stubbs? Hes a quack! Winifred? Shes got too many children. Four, isnt it? Shes as thin as a lath! What dyou give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry for me!
With the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself heard, which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved into its primal element, is found to be James telling a story, and this goes on for a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon what must universally be recognised as the crowning point of a Forsyte feast the saddle of mutton.