there stirred in him a queer vague aching—­as it were the ghost of an impersonal jealousy; and a feeling, too, more generous, of pity for that love so early lost.  All over in a few poor months!  Well, well!  He looked at his watch before entering the coppice—­only a quarter past, twenty-five minutes to wait!  And then, turning the corner of the path, he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time, on the log; and realised that she must have come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least.  Two hours of her society missed!  What memory could make that log so dear to her?  His face showed what he was thinking, for she said at once: 

“Forgive me, Uncle Jolyon; it was here that I first knew.”

“Yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like.  You’re looking a little Londony; you’re giving too many lessons.”

That she should have to give lessons worried him.  Lessons to a parcel of young girls thumping out scales with their thick fingers.

“Where do you go to give them?” he asked.

“They’re mostly Jewish families, luckily.”

Old Jolyon stared; to all Forsytes Jews seem strange and doubtful.

“They love music, and they’re very kind.”

“They had better be, by George!” He took her arm—­his side always hurt him a little going uphill—­and said: 

“Did you ever see anything like those buttercups?  They came like that in a night.”

Her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the flowers and the honey.  “I wanted you to see them—­wouldn’t let them turn the cows in yet.”  Then, remembering that she had come to talk about Bosinney, he pointed to the clock-tower over the stables: 

“I expect he wouldn’t have let me put that there—­had no notion of time, if I remember.”

But, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and he knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of her dead lover.

“The best flower I can show you,” he said, with a sort of triumph, “is my little sweet.  She’ll be back from Church directly.  There’s something about her which reminds me a little of you,” and it did not seem to him peculiar that he had put it thus, instead of saying:  “There’s something about you which reminds me a little of her.”  Ah!  And here she was!

Holly, followed closely by her elderly French governess, whose digestion had been ruined twenty-two years ago in the siege of Strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree.  She stopped about a dozen yards away, to pat Balthasar and pretend that this was all she had in her mind.  Old Jolyon, who knew better, said: 

“Well, my darling, here’s the lady in grey I promised you.”

Holly raised herself and looked up.  He watched the two of them with a twinkle, Irene smiling, Holly beginning with grave inquiry, passing into a shy smile too, and then to something deeper.  She had a sense of beauty, that child—­knew what was what!  He enjoyed the sight of the kiss between them.