The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays!

In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of a stout

and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to be his own.

His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner, instead of going

through the Green Park, the cabman turned to drive up St. James's

Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the trap (he could not bear

being taken out of his way); in turning, however, he found himself

opposite the 'Hotch Potch,' and the yearning that had been secretly with

him the whole evening prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He

would go in and ask if Jo still belonged there.

He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there

with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in London; and he looked

round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life

to be better served than most men.

"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?"

"Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?"

Old Jolyon was taken aback.

"His father," he said.

And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace.

Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his hat, and

was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. He was no

longer young, with hair going grey, and face--a narrower replica of his

father's, with the same large drooping moustache--decidedly worn.

He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for

nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed

hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said:

"How are you, my boy?"

The son answered:

"How are you, Dad?"

Old Jolyon's hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.

"If you're going my way," he said, "I can give you a lift."

And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they

went out and stepped into the cab.

To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. 'More of a man

altogether,' was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that son's

face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the

circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. The features

were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the

introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been

obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen

years.