And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world⁠—new to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its past⁠—went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs:

“On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate. No flowers by request.”

“On the 20th instant at the Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of Soames Forsyte, of a daughter.” And underneath on the blotting-paper he traced the word “son.”

It was eight o’clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to the house. Bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight.

He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and dark clothes.