“Names worth making make themselves in time.”

“When they’re dead.”

“Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his name made?”

“Yes, you,” said June, pressing his arm.

Jolyon started.  ‘I?’ he thought.  ’Oh!  Ah!  Now she’s going to ask me to do something.  We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our different ways.’

June came closer to him in the cab.

“Darling,” she said, “you buy the Gallery, and I’ll pay you four hundred a year for it.  Then neither of us will be any the worse off.  Besides, it’s a splendid investment.”

Jolyon wriggled.  “Don’t you think,” he said, “that for an artist to buy a Gallery is a bit dubious?  Besides, ten thousand pounds is a lump, and I’m not a commercial character.”

June looked at him with admiring appraisement.

“Of course you’re not, but you’re awfully businesslike.  And I’m sure we could make it pay.  It’ll be a perfect way of scoring off those wretched dealers and people.”  And again she squeezed her father’s arm.

Jolyon’s face expressed quizzical despair.

“Where is this desirable Gallery?  Splendidly situated, I suppose?”

“Just off Cork Street.”

‘Ah!’ thought Jolyon, ’I knew it was just off somewhere.  Now for what I want out of her!’

“Well, I’ll think of it, but not just now.  You remember Irene?  I want you to come with me and see her.  Soames is after her again.  She might be safer if we could give her asylum somewhere.”

The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated to rouse June’s interest.

“Irene!  I haven’t seen her since!  Of course!  I’d love to help her.”

It was Jolyon’s turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for this spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting.

“Irene is proud,” he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt of June’s discretion; “she’s difficult to help.  We must tread gently.  This is the place.  I wired her to expect us.  Let’s send up our cards.”

“I can’t bear Soames,” said June as she got out; “he sneers at everything that isn’t successful”

Irene was in what was called the ‘Ladies’ drawing-room’ of the Piedmont Hotel.

Nothing if not morally courageous, June walked straight up to her former friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a sofa never sat on since the hotel’s foundation.  Jolyon could see that Irene was deeply affected by this simple forgiveness.

“So Soames has been worrying you?” he said.

“I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him.”

“You’re not going, of course?” cried June.

Irene smiled faintly and shook her head.  “But his position is horrible,” she murmured.

“It’s his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he could.”