For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had bitter experiences. The passerby, who sees them wrapped in cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of great age⁠—to Sir Walter Bentham himself⁠—the idea of suicide has once at least been present in the anteroom of his soul; on the threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is hard! Seldom⁠—perhaps never⁠—can they achieve, it; and yet, how near have they not sometimes been!