Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene would see him.

The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms.  Rumours of war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the close of the summer holidays.  And the streets to Jolyon, who was not often up in town, had a feverish look, due to these new motorcars and cabs, of which he disapproved aesthetically.  He counted these vehicles from his hansom, and made the proportion of them one in twenty.  ’They were one in thirty about a year ago,’ he thought; ’they’ve come to stay.  Just so much more rattling round of wheels and general stink’—­for he was one of those rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material form; and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly, out of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen of plane-trees.  At the little block of flats which stood back some fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and went up to the first floor.

Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home!

The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to him remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune.  Everything was now fresh, dainty, and smelled of flowers.  The general effect was silvery with touches of black, hydrangea colour, and gold.  ‘A woman of great taste,’ he thought.  Time had dealt gently with Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte.  But with Irene Time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his impression.  She appeared to him not a day older, standing there in mole-coloured velvet corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair, with outstretched hand and a little smile.

“Won’t you sit down?”

He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of embarrassment.

“You look absolutely unchanged,” he said.

“And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon.”

Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a comfort to him.

“I’m ancient, but I don’t feel it.  That’s one thing about painting, it keeps you young.  Titian lived to ninety-nine, and had to have plague to kill him off.  Do you know, the first time I ever saw you I thought of a picture by him?”

“When did you see me for the first time?”

“In the Botanical Gardens.”

“How did you know me, if you’d never seen me before?”

“By someone who came up to you.”  He was looking at her hardily, but her face did not change; and she said quietly: 

“Yes; many lives ago.”

“What is your recipe for youth, Irene?”

“People who don’t live are wonderfully preserved.”

H’m! a bitter little saying!  People who don’t live!  But an opening, and he took it.  “You remember my Cousin Soames?”