“What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!” Then rising, she too left the room.  Soames was glad she had spoken it in French—­it seemed to require no dealing with.  Again that other face—­pale, dark-eyed, beautiful still!  And there stirred far down within him the ghost of warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash.  And Fleur infatuated with her boy!  Queer chance!  Yet, was there such a thing as chance?  A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head.  Ah! that was chance, no doubt.  But this!  “Inherited,” his girl had said.  She—­she was “holding on”!

Part III
I
old Jolyon walks

Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast “Let’s go up to Lord’s!”

“Wanted”—­something to abate the anxiety in which those two had lived during the sixty hours since Jon had brought Fleur down.  “Wanted”—­too, that which might assuage the pangs of memory in one who knew he might lose them any day!

Fifty-eight years ago Jolyon had become an Eton boy, for old Jolyon’s whim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possible expense.  Year after year he had gone to Lord’s from Stanhope Gate with a father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed without polish in the game of cricket.  Old Jolyon would speak quite openly of swipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and young Jolyon with the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest his sire should be overheard.  Only in this supreme matter of cricket he had been nervous, for his father—­in Crimean whiskers then—­had ever impressed him as the beau ideal.  Though never canonised himself, Old Jolyon’s natural fastidiousness and balance had saved him from the errors of the vulgar.  How delicious, after howling in a top hat and a sweltering heat, to go home with his father in a hansom cab, bathe, dress, and forth to the “Disunion” Club, to dine off white bait, cutlets, and a tart, and go—­two “swells,” old and young, in lavender kid gloves—­to the opera or play.  And on Sunday, when the match was over, and his top hat duly broken, down with his father in a special hansom to the “Crown and Sceptre,” and the terrace above the river—­the golden sixties when the world was simple, dandies glamorous, Democracy not born, and the books of Whyte Melville coming thick and fast.

A generation later, with his own boy, Jolly, Harrow-buttonholed with corn-flowers—­by old Jolyon’s whim his grandson had been canonised at a trifle less expense—­again Jolyon had experienced the heat and counter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and the strawberry beds of Robin Hill, and billiards after dinner, his boy making the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid and grown-up.  Those two days each year he and his son had been alone together in the world, one on each side—­and Democracy just born!

And so, he had unearthed a grey top hat, borrowed a tiny bit of light-blue ribbon from Irene, and gingerly, keeping cool, by car and train and taxi, had reached Lord’s Ground.  There, beside her in a lawn-coloured frock with narrow black edges, he had watched the game, and felt the old thrill stir within him.