each painted flower, and bird, and beast—­the ego, yet the sense of species, the universality of life as well.  They were the fellows!  ‘I’ve made nothing that will live!’ thought Jolyon; ’I’ve been an amateur—­a mere lover, not a creator.  Still, I shall leave Jon behind me when I go.’  What luck that the boy had not been caught by that ghastly war!  He might so easily have been killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in the Transvaal.  Jon would do something some day—­if the Age didn’t spoil him—­an imaginative chap!  His whim to take up farming was but a bit of sentiment, and about as likely to last.  And just then he saw them coming up the field:  Irene and the boy; walking from the station, with their arms linked.  And getting up, he strolled down through the new rose garden to meet them....

Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window.  She sat there without speaking till he said: 

“What is it, my love?”

“We had an encounter to-day.”

“With whom?”

“Soames.”

Soames!  He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years; conscious that it was bad for him.  And, now, his heart moved in a disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest.

Irene went on quietly: 

“He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterward at the confectioner’s where we had tea.”

Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder.

“How did he look?”

“Grey; but otherwise much the same.”

“And the daughter?”

“Pretty.  At least, Jon thought so.”

Jolyon’s heart side-slipped again.  His wife’s face had a strained and puzzled look.

“You didn’t-?” he began.

“No; but Jon knows their name.  The girl dropped her handkerchief and he picked it up.”

Jolyon sat down on his bed.  An evil chance!

“June was with you.  Did she put her foot into it?”

“No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it was.”

Jolyon drew a long breath, and said: 

“I’ve often wondered whether we’ve been right to keep it from him.  He’ll find out some day.”

“The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard judgment.  When you were nineteen what would you have thought of your mother if she had done what I have?”

Yes!  There it was!  Jon worshipped his mother; and knew nothing of the tragedies, the inexorable necessities of life, nothing of the prisoned grief in an unhappy marriage, nothing of jealousy or passion—­knew nothing at all, as yet!

“What have you told him?” he said at last.

“That they were relations, but we didn’t know them; that you had never cared much for your family, or they for you.  I expect he will be asking you.”

Jolyon smiled.  “This promises to take the place of air-raids,” he said.  “After all, one misses them.”