was dead; but June was a stubborn little thing; warm-hearted, but stubborn as wood, and—­quite true—­not one who forgot!  By the middle of next month they would be back.  He had barely five weeks left to enjoy the new interest which had come into what remained of his life.  Darkness showed up to him absurdly clear the nature of his feeling.  Admiration for beauty—­a craving to see that which delighted his eyes.

Preposterous, at his age!  And yet—­what other reason was there for asking June to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his son and his son’s wife from thinking him very queer?  He would be reduced to sneaking up to London, which tired him; and the least indisposition would cut him off even from that.  He lay with eyes open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself an old fool, while his heart beat loudly, and then seemed to stop beating altogether.  He had seen the dawn lighting the window chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane.  Five weeks before he need bother, at his age an eternity!  But that early morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of one who had always had his own way.  He would see her as often as he wished!  Why not go up to town and make that codicil at his solicitor’s instead of writing about it; she might like to go to the opera!  But, by train, for he would not have that fat chap Beacon grinning behind his back.  Servants were such fools; and, as likely as not, they had known all the past history of Irene and young Bosinney—­servants knew everything, and suspected the rest.  He wrote to her that morning: 

“My dear Irene,—­I have to be up in town to-morrow.  If you would like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me quietly ....”

But where?  It was decades since he had dined anywhere in London save at his Club or at a private house.  Ah! that new-fangled place close to Covent Garden....

“Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether to expect you there at 7 o’clock.”  “Yours affectionately, “Jolyon Forsyte.”

She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman.

The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer’s, tired him.  It was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little.  He must have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell.  Why! it was past seven!  And there he was and she would be waiting.  But suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa.  He heard the maid’s voice say: