Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water, and began feverishly washing. Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy seized him again. Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street. He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her at Bosinney's. But if he should? His power of decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her there. It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he.... Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He went up with a dogged, white face. The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he told the man to drive to Park Lane. On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation unmade. The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master had told him they were both expected to dinner. Soames answered: "No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold." The butler was sorry. Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: "Anybody here to dinner, Warmson?" "Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir." Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously at him. His composure gave way. "What are you looking at?" he said. "What's the matter with me, eh?" The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded like: "Nothing, sir, I'm sure, sir," and stealthily withdrew. Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went straight up to his mother's and father's bedroom. James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife's bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. He--he himself had never--never been asked to....