“The train’s in, sir; but the lady ’asn’t come.”

Old Jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push away that fat chap’s curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter disappointment he was feeling.

“Very well,” he said, and turned back into the house.  He went to his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf.  What did this mean?  She might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn’t.  ’Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon.’  Why ‘Good-bye’ and not ‘Good-night’?  And that hand of hers lingering in the air.  And her kiss.  What did it mean?  Vehement alarm and irritation took possession of him.  He got up and began to pace the Turkey carpet, between window and wall.  She was going to give him up!  He felt it for certain—­and he defenceless.  An old man wanting to look on beauty!  It was ridiculous!  Age closed his mouth, paralysed his power to fight.  He had no right to what was warm and living, no right to anything but memories and sorrow.  He could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity.  Defenceless!  For an hour, lost to bodily fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had plucked, which mocked him with its scent.  Of all things hard to bear, the prostration of will-power is hardest, for one who has always had his way.  Nature had got him in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned and swam at the meshes, here and there, found no hole, no breaking point.  They brought him tea at five o’clock, and a letter.  For a moment hope beat up in him.  He cut the envelope with the butter knife, and read: 

“Dearest uncle Jolyon,—­I can’t bear to write anything that may disappoint you, but I was too cowardly to tell you last night.  I feel I can’t come down and give Holly any more lessons, now that June is coming back.  Some things go too deep to be forgotten.  It has been such a joy to see you and Holly.  Perhaps I shall still see you sometimes when you come up, though I’m sure it’s not good for you; I can see you are tiring yourself too much.  I believe you ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you have your son and June coming back you will be so happy.  Thank you a million times for all your sweetness to me.

“Lovingly your Irene.”

So, there it was!  Not good for him to have pleasure and what he chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable end of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling footsteps.  Not good for him!  Not even she could see how she was his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all the beauty he felt slipping from him.

His tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he paced, torn between his dignity and his hold on life.  Intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on when your will was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to the ground with care and love.  Intolerable!  He would see what telling her the truth would do—­the truth that he wanted the sight of her more than just a lingering on.  He sat down at his old bureau and took a pen.  But he could not write.  There was something revolting in having to plead like this; plead that she should warm his eyes with her beauty.  It was tantamount to confessing dotage.  He simply could not.  And instead, he wrote: