"I was driving up," he said. "Thought I'd look in on you, and ask you
how you got up the other night."
And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. She was really glad to
see him, perhaps.
"Would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the Park?"
But while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. The Park! James
and Emily! Mrs. Nicholas, or some other member of his precious family
would be there very likely, prancing up and down. And they would go and
wag their tongues about having seen him with her, afterwards. Better
not! He did not wish to revive the echoes of the past on
Forsyte 'Change. He removed a white hair from the lapel of his
closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed his hand over his cheeks,
moustache, and square chin. It felt very hollow there under the
cheekbones. He had not been eating much lately--he had better get that
little whippersnapper who attended Holly to give him a tonic. But she
had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said:
"Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?" and added with
a twinkle: "No prancing up and down there," as if she had been in the
secret of his thoughts.
Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled
towards the water.
"You've gone back to your maiden name, I see," he said: "I'm not sorry."
She slipped her hand under his arm: "Has June forgiven me, Uncle
Jolyon?"
He answered gently: "Yes--yes; of course, why not?"
"And have you?"
"I? I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay." And perhaps
he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the beautiful.
She drew a deep breath. "I never regretted--I couldn't. Did you ever
love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?"
At that strange question old Jolyon stared before him. Had he? He did
not seem to remember that he ever had. But he did not like to say this
to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose life was
suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. And he thought: 'If
I had met you when I was young I--I might have made a fool of myself,
perhaps.' And a longing to escape in generalities beset him.
"Love's a queer thing," he said, "fatal thing often. It was the
Greeks--wasn't it?--made love into a goddess; they were right, I dare
say, but then they lived in the Golden Age."
"Phil adored them."
Phil! The word jarred him, for suddenly--with his power to see all round
a thing, he perceived why she was putting up with him like this. She
wanted to talk about her lover! Well! If it was any pleasure to her! And
he said: "Ah! There was a bit of the sculptor in him, I fancy."