He got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced down

over the river. There was little air, but the sight of that breadth

of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'The great thing,'

he thought 'is not to make myself a nuisance. I'll think of my little

sweet, and go to sleep.' But it was long before the heat and throbbing

of the London night died out into the short slumber of the summer

morning. And old Jolyon had but forty winks.

When he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and with

the help of Holly, who was very delicate with flowers, gathered a great

bunch of carnations. They were, he told her, for 'the lady in grey'--a

name still bandied between them; and he put them in a bowl in his study

where he meant to tackle Irene the moment she came, on the subject of

June and future lessons. Their fragrance and colour would help. After

lunch he lay down, for he felt very tired, and the carriage would not

bring her from the station till four o'clock. But as the hour approached

he grew restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive.

The sun-blinds were down, and Holly was there with Mademoiselle Beauce,

sheltered from the heat of a stifling July day, attending to their

silkworms. Old Jolyon had a natural antipathy to these methodical

creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of elephants; who nibbled

such quantities of holes in nice green leaves; and smelled, as he

thought, horrid. He sat down on a chintz-covered windowseat whence he

could see the drive, and get what air there was; and the dog Balthasar

who appreciated chintz on hot days, jumped up beside him. Over the

cottage piano a violet dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and

on it the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. In spite of

the coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life

vehemently impressed his ebbed-down senses. Each sunbeam which came

through the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very

strong; the lavender perfume was overpowering; those silkworms heaving

up their grey-green backs seemed horribly alive; and Holly's dark head

bent over them had a wonderfully silky sheen. A marvellous cruelly

strong thing was life when you were old and weak; it seemed to mock you

with its multitude of forms and its beating vitality. He had never, till

those last few weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of

him eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and with the other half

left on the bank, watching that helpless progress. Only when Irene was

with him did he lose this double consciousness.




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