In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the

evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace

of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him,

before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand,

where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering,

long-nailed fingers--a pointed polished nail had survived with him from

those earlier Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips

of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed forehead, great

white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the

westering sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in

all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man

who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his

feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a Pomeranian--the dog

Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal aversion had changed into

attachment with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the

swing was seated one of Holly's dolls--called 'Duffer Alice'--with

her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black

petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her

how she sat. Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched

to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to

the pond, the coppice, and the prospect--'Fine, remarkable'--at which

Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago

when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had heard

of his brother's exploit--that drive which had become quite celebrated

on Forsyte 'Change. Swithin! And the fellow had gone and died, last

November, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether

Forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann

passed away. Died! and left only Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas

and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought: 'Eighty-five!

I don't feel it--except when I get that pain.'

His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought

his nephew Soames' ill-starred house and settled into it here at Robin

Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting

younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his

grandchildren--June, and the little ones of the second marriage, Jolly

and Holly; living down here out of the racket of London and the cackle

of Forsyte 'Change,' free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of

no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and

mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to

the whims of Holly and Jolly. All the knots and crankiness, which had

gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of June,

Soames, Irene his wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out.

Even June had thrown off her melancholy at last--witness this travel in

Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously

perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because

his son was not there. Jo was never anything but a comfort and a

pleasure to him nowadays--an amiable chap; but women, somehow--even the

best--got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them.




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