Now he stood still on the rise overlooking the Serpentine, where, in full lamplight, black against the silver water, sat a couple who never moved, the woman’s face buried on the man’s neck⁠—a single form, like a carved emblem of passion, silent and unashamed.

And, stung by the sight, Soames hurried on deeper into the shadow of the trees.

In this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought? Bread for hunger⁠—light in darkness? Who knows what he expected to find⁠—impersonal knowledge of the human heart⁠—the end of his private subterranean tragedy⁠—for, again, who knew, but that each dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she?

But it could not be such knowledge as this that he was seeking⁠—the wife of Soames Forsyte sitting in the Park like a common wench! Such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to tree, with his noiseless step, he passed.