a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, ‘Tragic death of an Architect,’ in the street.  Her face had struck him very much the other night—­more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it.  A young woman still—­twenty-eight perhaps.  Ah, well!  Very likely she had another lover by now.  But at this subversive thought—­for married women should never love:  once, even, had been too much—­his instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar’s head.  The sagacious animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon’s face.  ‘Walk?’ he seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered:  “Come on, old chap!”

Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery.  This feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture.  Its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there.  Old Jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be, some day, and he would think:  ’I must get Varr to come down and look at it; he’s better than Beech.’  For plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration.  It was inhabited by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said:  ’Have plummers got leggers, Mother?  ‘No, sonny.’  ‘Then darned if I haven’t been and swallowed a snileybob.’  And when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy’s ‘red lane,’ his eyes would twinkle.  Emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area, out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved.  Old Jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond.  Balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two, gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day.  Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon stood, noting another water-lily opened since yesterday; he would show it to Holly to-morrow, when ‘his little sweet’ had got over the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch—­her little arrangements were very delicate.  Now that Jolly had gone to school—­his first term—­Holly was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly.  He felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side.  He looked back up the hill.  Really, poor young Bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for himself if he had lived!  And where was he now?  Perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair.  Or was Philip Bosinney’s