Indian Summer of a Forsyte | Page 5

the field. The sun was almost level in their faces now,
and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep
enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness--the special look
of life unshared with others. "I'll take her in by the terrace," he thought:
"I won't make a common visitor of her."
"What do you do all day?" he said.
"Teach music; I have another interest, too."
"Work!" said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and
smoothing its black petticoat. "Nothing like it, is there? I don't do any
now. I'm getting on. What interest is that?"
"Trying to help women who've come to grief." Old Jolyon did not quite
understand. "To grief?" he repeated; then realised with a shock that she
meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that
expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! What a weird and
terrifying interest! And, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he
asked:
"Why? What do you do for them?"
"Not much. I've no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and food
sometimes."
Involuntarily old Jolyon's hand sought his purse. He said hastily: "How
d'you get hold of them?"
"I go to a hospital."

"A hospital! Phew!"
"What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of
beauty."
Old Jolyon straightened the doll. "Beauty!" he ejaculated: "Ha! Yes! A
sad business!" and he moved towards the house. Through a French
window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the
room where he was wont to study The Times and the sheets of an
agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and
the like, which provided Holly with material for her paint brush.
"Dinner's in half an hour. You'd like to wash your hands! I'll take you
to June's room."
He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last
visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps- -he
did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he wished to leave
it so. But what changes! And in the hall he said:
"My boy Jo's a painter, you know. He's got a lot of taste. It isn't mine,
of course, but I've let him have his way."
She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and
music room, as it now was--all thrown into one, under the great
skylight. Old Jolyon had an odd impression of her. Was she trying to
conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the colouring
was all pearl-grey and silver? He would have had gold himself; more
lively and solid. But Jo had French tastes, and it had come out shadowy
like that, with an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always
smoking, broken here and there by a little blaze of blue or crimson
colour. It was not his dream! Mentally he had hung this space with
those gold-framed masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had
bought in days when quantity was precious. And now where were they?
Sold for a song! That something which made him, alone among
Forsytes, move with the times had warned him against the struggle to
retain them. But in his study he still had 'Dutch Fishing Boats at
Sunset.'
He began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his side.
"These are the bathrooms," he said, "and other arrangements. I've had
them tiled. The nurseries are along there. And this is Jo's and his wife's.
They all communicate. But you remember, I expect."
Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room

with a small bed, and several windows.
"This is mine," he said. The walls were covered with the photographs
of children and watercolour sketches, and he added doubtfully:
"These are Jo's. The view's first-rate. You can see the Grand Stand at
Epsom in clear weather."
The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a
luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous day.
Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a
loom of downs.
"The country's changing," he said abruptly, "but there it'll be when
we're all gone. Look at those thrushes--the birds are sweet here in the
mornings. I'm glad to have washed my hands of London."
Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its
mournful look. 'Wish I could make her look happy!' he thought. 'A
pretty face, but sad!' And taking up his can of hot water he went out
into the gallery.
"This is June's room," he said, opening the next door and putting the
can down; "I think you'll