"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling."

The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her
use it. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them
something of George Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand
crisped the folds of her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went
stony. She moved on.

"It IS a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again.

Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a
Forsyte chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something
sunny, like a glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile
perhaps, his hair. Better than they deserved--those two! They
passed from his view into the next room, and Soames continued to
regard the Future Town, but saw it not. A little smile snarled up
his lips. He was despising the vehemence of his own feelings after
all these years. Ghosts! And yet as one grew old--was there
anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes, there was Fleur! He
fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; but she would keep
him waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware of a sort of
human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-green djibbah
with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all
streaked with grey. She was talking to the Gallery attendants, and
something familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her
hair, her spirit--something which suggested a thin Skye terrier
just before its dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin June--and
coming straight to his recess! She sat down beside him, deep in
thought, took out a tablet, and made a pencil note. Soames sat
unmoving. A confounded thing cousinship! "Disgusting!" he heard