It is so much easier to say, “Then we know where we are,” than to mean anything particular by the words. And in saying them Soames did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of the cab in a state of wary anger⁠—with himself for not having seen Irene, with Jolyon for having seen her; and now with his inability to tell exactly what he wanted.

He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he thought: “I wouldn’t trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once outcast, always outcast!” The chap had a natural sympathy with⁠—with⁠—laxity (he had shied at the word “sin,” because it was too melodramatic for use by a Forsyte).

Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a child between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken away from him; and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday desire had seemed simple⁠—just his freedom and Annette. “I’ll go and dine there,” he thought. To see her might bring back his singleness of intention, calm his exasperation, clear his mind.