eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the dark eyes. Curious that Fleur
should have dark eyes, when his own were grey--no pure Forsyte had
brown eyes--and her mother's blue! But of course her grandmother
Lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle!

He began to walk on again towards Hyde Park Corner. No greater
change in all England than in the Row! Born almost within hail of
it, he could remember it from 1860 on. Brought there as a child
between the crinolines to stare at tight-trousered dandies in
whiskers, riding with a cavalry seat; to watch the doffing of
curly-brimmed and white top hats; the leisurely air of it all, and
the little bow-legged man in a long red waistcoat who used to come
among the fashion with dogs on several strings, and try to sell
one to his mother: King Charles spaniels, Italian greyhounds,
affectionate to her crinoline--you never saw them now. You saw no
quality of any sort, indeed, just working people sitting in dull
rows with nothing to stare at but a few young bouncing females in
pot hats, riding astride, or desultory Colonials charging up and
down on dismal-looking hacks; with, here and there, little girls
on ponies, or old gentlemen jogging their livers, or an orderly
trying a great galumphing cavalry horse; no thoroughbreds, no
grooms, no bowing, no scraping, no gossip--nothing; only the
trees the same--the trees indifferent to the generations and
declensions of mankind. A democratic England--dishevelled,
hurried, noisy, and seemingly without an apex. And that something
fastidious in the soul of Soames turned over within him. Gone for
ever, the close borough of rank and polish! Wealth there was--oh,
yes! wealth--he himself was a richer man than his father had ever
been; but manners, flavour, quality, all gone, engulfed in one
vast, ugly, shoulder-rubbing, petrol-smelling Cheerio. Little