He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went on: 

“He came to see me the day before yesterday!  He wants a divorce.  Do you?”

“I?” The word seemed startled out of her.  “After twelve years?  It’s rather late.  Won’t it be difficult?”

Jolyon looked hard into her face.  “Unless....” he said.

“Unless I have a lover now.  But I have never had one since.”

What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words?  Relief, surprise, pity!  Venus for twelve years without a lover!

“And yet,” he said, “I suppose you would give a good deal to be free, too?”

“I don’t know.  What does it matter, now?”

“But if you were to love again?”

“I should love.”  In that simple answer she seemed to sum up the whole philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back.

“Well!  Is there anything you would like me to say to him?”

“Only that I’m sorry he’s not free.  He had his chance once.  I don’t know why he didn’t take it.”

“Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, unless we want something in their place; and not always then.”

Irene smiled.  “Don’t you, Cousin Jolyon?—­I think you do.”

“Of course, I’m a bit of a mongrel—­not quite a pure Forsyte.  I never take the halfpennies off my cheques, I put them on,” said Jolyon uneasily.

“Well, what does Soames want in place of me now?”

“I don’t know; perhaps children.”

She was silent for a little, looking down.

“Yes,” she murmured; “it’s hard.  I would help him to be free if I could.”

Jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; so was his admiration, his wonder, and his pity.  She was so lovely, and so lonely; and altogether it was such a coil!

“Well,” he said, “I shall have to see Soames.  If there’s anything I can do for you I’m always at your service.  You must think of me as a wretched substitute for my father.  At all events I’ll let you know what happens when I speak to Soames.  He may supply the material himself.”

She shook her head.

“You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing.  I should like him to be free; but I don’t see what I can do.”

“Nor I at the moment,” said Jolyon, and soon after took his leave.  He went down to his hansom.  Half-past three!  Soames would be at his office still.

“To the Poultry,” he called through the trap.  In front of the Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall, newsvendors were calling, “Grave situation in the Transvaal!” but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and the words:  “I have never had one since.”  What on earth did such a woman do with her life, back-watered like this?  Solitary, unprotected, with every man’s hand against her or rather—­reaching out to grasp her at the least sign.  And year after year she went on like that!