“You ought to go into the country, Uncle James.  I wish I had a lot of money, I wouldn’t live another day in London.”

James was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had no idea his niece held such downright views.

“Why don’t you go into the country?” repeated June; “it would do you a lot of good.”

“Why?” began James in a fluster.  “Buying land—­what good d’you suppose I can do buying land, building houses?—­I couldn’t get four per cent. for my money!”

“What does that matter?  You’d get fresh air.”

“Fresh air!” exclaimed James; “what should I do with fresh air,”

“I should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air,” said June scornfully.

James wiped his napkin all over his mouth.

“You don’t know the value of money,” he said, avoiding her eye.

“No! and I hope I never shall!” and, biting her lip with inexpressible mortification, poor June was silent.

Why were her own relations so rich, and Phil never knew where the money was coming from for to-morrow’s tobacco.  Why couldn’t they do something for him?  But they were so selfish.  Why couldn’t they build country-houses?  She had all that naive dogmatism which is so pathetic, and sometimes achieves such great results.  Bosinney, to whom she turned in her discomfiture, was talking to Irene, and a chill fell on June’s spirit.  Her eyes grew steady with anger, like old Jolyon’s when his will was crossed.

James, too, was much disturbed.  He felt as though someone had threatened his right to invest his money at five per cent.  Jolyon had spoiled her.  None of his girls would have said such a thing.  James had always been exceedingly liberal to his children, and the consciousness of this made him feel it all the more deeply.  He trifled moodily with his strawberries, then, deluging them with cream, he ate them quickly; they, at all events, should not escape him.

No wonder he was upset.  Engaged for fifty-four years (he had been admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the law) in arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead level of high and safe interest, conducting negotiations on the principle of securing the utmost possible out of other people compatible with safety to his clients and himself, in calculations as to the exact pecuniary possibilities of all the relations of life, he had come at last to think purely in terms of money.  Money was now his light, his medium for seeing, that without which he was really unable to see, really not cognisant of phenomena; and to have this thing, “I hope I shall never know the value of money!” said to his face, saddened and exasperated him.  He knew it to be nonsense, or it would have frightened him.  What was the world coming to!  Suddenly recollecting the story of young Jolyon, however, he felt a little comforted, for what could you expect with a father like that!  This turned his thoughts into a channel still less pleasant.  What was all this talk about Soames and Irene?