"Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted way the

Greeks gave themselves to art."

Balance! The chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for

symmetry--clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer eyes of

his, and high cheek-bones--Symmetry?

"You're of the Golden Age, too, Uncle Jolyon."

Old Jolyon looked round at her. Was she chaffing him? No, her eyes

were soft as velvet. Was she flattering him? But if so, why? There was

nothing to be had out of an old chap like him.

"Phil thought so. He used to say: 'But I can never tell him that I

admire him.'"

Ah! There it was again. Her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! And

he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, half grateful, as

if he recognised what a link they were between herself and him.

"He was a very talented young fellow," he murmured. "It's hot; I feel

the heat nowadays. Let's sit down."

They took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves covered

them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon. A pleasure to sit there

and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with him. And the wish to

increase that liking, if he could, made him go on:

"I expect he showed you a side of him I never saw. He'd be at his best

with you. His ideas of art were a little new--to me "--he had stiffed

the word 'fangled.'

"Yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty." Old Jolyon

thought: 'The devil he did!' but answered with a twinkle: "Well, I have,

or I shouldn't be sitting here with you." She was fascinating when she

smiled with her eyes, like that!

"He thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. Phil had

real insight."

He was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out of a

longing to talk of her dead lover--not a bit; and yet it was precious

to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart which--quite true!--had

never grown old. Was that because--unlike her and her dead lover, he had

never loved to desperation, had always kept his balance, his sense of

symmetry. Well! It had left him power, at eighty-four, to admire beauty.

And he thought, 'If I were a painter or a sculptor! But I'm an old chap.

Make hay while the sun shines.'

A couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at the

edge of the shadow from their tree. The sunlight fell cruelly on their

pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. "We're an ugly lot!" said old

Jolyon suddenly. "It amazes me to see how--love triumphs over that."




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