“Did you ring, sir?”

“Yes, come here”; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of his eyes.  “I’m not well, I want some sal volatile.”

“Yes, sir.”  Her voice sounded frightened.

Old Jolyon made an effort.

“Don’t go.  Take this message to my niece—­a lady waiting in the hall—­a lady in grey.  Say Mr. Forsyte is not well—­the heat.  He is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner.”

When she was gone, he thought feebly:  ’Why did I say a lady in grey—­she may be in anything.  Sal volatile!’ He did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head.  He heard her say anxiously:  “Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?” was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed.

“Ha!” he said, “it’s nothing.  How did you get here?  Go down and dine—­the tickets are on the dressing-table.  I shall be all right in a minute.”

He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right.

“Why!  You are in grey!” he said.  “Help me up.”  Once on his feet he gave himself a shake.

“What business had I to go off like that!” And he moved very slowly to the glass.  What a cadaverous chap!  Her voice, behind him, murmured: 

“You mustn’t come down, Uncle; you must rest.”

“Fiddlesticks!  A glass of champagne’ll soon set me to rights.  I can’t have you missing the opera.”

But the journey down the corridor was troublesome.  What carpets they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every step!  In the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle: 

“I’m a pretty host.”

When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude into her manner towards him.

“I should have liked you for a daughter,” he said suddenly; and watching the smile in her eyes, went on: 

“You mustn’t get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of that when you get to my age.  That’s a nice dress—­I like the style.”

“I made it myself.”

Ah!  A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her interest in life.

“Make hay while the sun shines,” he said; “and drink that up.  I want to see some colour in your cheeks.  We mustn’t waste life; it doesn’t do.  There’s a new Marguerite to-night; let’s hope she won’t be fat.  And Mephisto—­anything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the Devil I can’t imagine.”