Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene would

see him.

The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so

wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. Rumours of

war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the close of the

summer holidays. And the streets to Jolyon, who was not often up in

town, had a feverish look, due to these new motorcars and cabs, of which

he disapproved aesthetically. He counted these vehicles from his hansom,

and made the proportion of them one in twenty. 'They were one in thirty

about a year ago,' he thought; 'they've come to stay. Just so much more

rattling round of wheels and general stink'--for he was one of those

rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material

form; and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly,

out of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing

screen of plane-trees. At the little block of flats which stood back

some fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and

went up to the first floor.

Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home!

The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to

him remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat eight

years ago when he announced her good fortune. Everything was now fresh,

dainty, and smelled of flowers. The general effect was silvery with

touches of black, hydrangea colour, and gold. 'A woman of great taste,'

he thought. Time had dealt gently with Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte.

But with Irene Time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his

impression. She appeared to him not a day older, standing there in

mole-coloured velvet corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair,

with outstretched hand and a little smile.

"Won't you sit down?"

He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of

embarrassment.

"You look absolutely unchanged," he said.

"And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon."

Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a

comfort to him.

"I'm ancient, but I don't feel it. That's one thing about painting, it

keeps you young. Titian lived to ninety-nine, and had to have plague to

kill him off. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you I thought of a

picture by him?"

"When did you see me for the first time?"

"In the Botanical Gardens."

"How did you know me, if you'd never seen me before?"

"By someone who came up to you." He was looking at her hardily, but her

face did not change; and she said quietly:




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