The little spirits of the past which throng an old man’s days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy hours elapsing before Sunday came.  The spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead.  Old Jolyon was not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was coming to lunch.  There is wonderful finality about a meal; it removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for reasons beyond control.  He played many games with Holly on the lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready to bowl to Jolly in the holidays.  For she was not a Forsyte, but Jolly was—­and Forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and reached the age of eighty-five.  The dog Balthasar, in attendance, lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, till his face was like the harvest moon.  And because the time was getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the last.  On Friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy like that.  Anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was not good for him, would have been met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his deep-set iron-grey eyes, which seemed to say:  ’I know my own business best.’  He always had and always would.

On Sunday morning, when Holly had gone with her governess to church, he visited the strawberry beds.  There, accompanied by the dog Balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe.  Stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red in the forehead.  Having placed the strawberries in a dish on the dining-table, he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with eau de Cologne.  There, before the mirror, it occurred to him that he was thinner.  What a ‘threadpaper’ he had been when he was young!  It was nice to be slim—­he could not bear a fat chap; and yet perhaps his cheeks were too thin!  She was to arrive by train at half-past twelve and walk up, entering from the road past Drage’s farm at the far end of the coppice.  And, having looked into June’s room to see that there was hot water ready, he set forth to meet her, leisurely, for his heart was beating.  The air smelled sweet, larks sang, and the Grand Stand at Epsom was visible.  A perfect day!  On just such a one, no doubt, six years ago, Soames had brought young Bosinney down with him to look at the site before they began to build.  It was Bosinney who had pitched on the exact spot for the house—­as June had often told him.  In these days he was thinking much about that young fellow, as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work, on the chance of seeing—­her.  Bosinney—­the one man who had possessed her heart, to whom she had given her whole self with rapture!  At his age one could not, of course, imagine such things, but