pain and humiliation during the rest of her life.  Young though she will always seem to me, she is fifty-seven.  Except for us two she has no one in the world.  She will soon have only you.  Pluck up your spirit, Jon, and break away.  Don’t put this cloud and barrier between you.  Don’t break her heart!  Bless you, my dear boy, and again forgive me for all the pain this letter must bring you—­we tried to spare it you, but Spain—­it seems—–­was no good.

“Ever your devoted father
“Jolyon Forsyte.”

Having finished his confession, Jolyon sat with a thin cheek on his hand, re-reading.  There were things in it which hurt him so much, when he thought of Jon reading them, that he nearly tore the letter up.  To speak of such things at all to a boy—­his own boy—­to speak of them in relation to his own wife and the boy’s own mother, seemed dreadful to the reticence of his Forsyte soul.  And yet without speaking of them how make Jon understand the reality, the deep cleavage, the ineffaceable scar?  Without them, how justify this stiffing of the boy’s love?  He might just as well not write at all!

He folded the confession, and put it in his pocket.  It was—­thank Heaven!—­Saturday; he had till Sunday evening to think it over; for even if posted now it could not reach Jon till Monday.  He felt a curious relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent or not, it was written.

In the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, he could see Irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her arm.  She was never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now that he himself was idle nearly all his time.  He went down to her.  She held up a stained glove and smiled.  A piece of lace tied under her chin concealed her hair, and her oval face with its still dark brows looked very young.

“The green-fly are awful this year, and yet it’s cold.  You look tired, Jolyon.”

Jolyon took the confession from his pocket.  “I’ve been writing this.  I think you ought to see it?”

“To Jon?” Her whole face had changed, in that instant, becoming almost haggard.

“Yes; the murder’s out.”

He gave it to her, and walked away among the roses.  Presently, seeing that she had finished reading and was standing quite still with the sheets of the letter against her skirt, he came back to her.

“Well?”

“It’s wonderfully put.  I don’t see how it could be put better.  Thank you, dear.”

“Is there anything you would like left out?”

She shook her head.

“No; he must know all, if he’s to understand.”

“That’s what I thought, but—­I hate it!”

He had the feeling that he hated it more than she—­to him sex was so much easier to mention between man and woman than between man and man; and she had always been more natural and frank, not deeply secretive like his Forsyte self.