“Yes, the lady in grey.”  What other ladies were there!  Stodgy chap!

The carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats, standing a little back from the river.  With a practised eye old Jolyon saw that they were cheap.  ‘I should think about sixty pound a year,’ he mused; and entering, he looked at the name-board.  The name ‘Forsyte’ was not on it, but against ‘First Floor, Flat C’ were the words:  ’Mrs. Irene Heron.’  Ah!  She had taken her maiden name again!  And somehow this pleased him.  He went upstairs slowly, feeling his side a little.  He stood a moment, before ringing, to lose the feeling of drag and fluttering there.  She would not be in!  And then—­Boots!  The thought was black.  What did he want with boots at his age?  He could not wear out all those he had.

“Your mistress at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.”

“Yes, sir, will you come this way?”

Old Jolyon followed a very little maid—­not more than sixteen one would say—­into a very small drawing-room where the sun-blinds were drawn.  It held a cottage piano and little else save a vague fragrance and good taste.  He stood in the middle, with his top hat in his hand, and thought:  ‘I expect she’s very badly off!’ There was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself reflected.  An old-looking chap!  He heard a rustle, and turned round.  She was so close that his moustache almost brushed her forehead, just under her hair.

“I was driving up,” he said.  “Thought I’d look in on you, and ask you how you got up the other night.”

And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved.  She was really glad to see him, perhaps.

“Would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the Park?”

But while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned.  The Park!  James and Emily!  Mrs. Nicholas, or some other member of his precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down.  And they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him with her, afterwards.  Better not!  He did not wish to revive the echoes of the past on Forsyte ’Change.  He removed a white hair from the lapel of his closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed his hand over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin.  It felt very hollow there under the cheekbones.  He had not been eating much lately—­he had better get that little whippersnapper who attended Holly to give him a tonic.  But she had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said: 

“Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?” and added with a twinkle:  “No prancing up and down there,” as if she had been in the secret of his thoughts.

Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled towards the water.

“You’ve gone back to your maiden name, I see,” he said:  “I’m not sorry.”

She slipped her hand under his arm:  “Has June forgiven me, Uncle Jolyon?”