And once on a time all this was jungle and marsh and water,and weird creatures roamed and sported without human cognizance to give them names;rotting luxuriance had rioted where those tall,care-fully planted woods came down to the water,and marsh-misted reeds on that far side had covered all the pasture.Well!they had got it under,kennelled it all up,labelled it,and stowed it in lawyers'offices.And a good thing too!But once in a way,as now,the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any human who chanced to be awake:'Out of my unowned loneliness you all came,into it some day you will all return.'
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."