“To the Poultry,” he called through the trap. In front of the Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall, news vendors were calling, “Grave situation in the Transvaal!” but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and the words: “I have never had one since.” What on earth did such a woman do with her life, back-watered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with every man’s hand against her or rather⁠—reaching out to grasp her at the least sign. And year after year she went on like that!

The word “Poultry” above the passing citizens brought him back to reality.

“Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,” in black letters on a ground the colour of pea soup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up the stone stairs muttering: “Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we couldn’t do without them!”