“Oh, Dad!” cried Jon, and burst into tears.

This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved Jolyon terribly.  He recognised to the full how fearfully soft the boy’s heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in life generally.  And he reached out his hand helplessly—­not wishing, indeed not daring to get up.

“Dear man,” he said, “don’t—­or you’ll make me!”

Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very still.

‘What now?’ thought Jolyon.  ‘What can I say to move him?’

“By the way, don’t speak of that to Mother,” he said; “she has enough to frighten her with this affair of yours.  I know how you feel.  But, Jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn’t wish to spoil your happiness lightly.  Why, my dear boy, we don’t care for anything but your happiness—­at least, with me it’s just yours and Mother’s and with her just yours.  It’s all the future for you both that’s at stake.”

Jon turned.  His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed to burn.

“What is it?  What is it?  Don’t keep me like this!”

Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his breast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his eyes closed.  The thought passed through his mind:  ’I’ve had a good long innings—­some pretty bitter moments—­this is the worst!’ Then he brought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of fatigue:  “Well, Jon, if you hadn’t come to-day, I was going to send you this.  I wanted to spare you—­I wanted to spare your mother and myself, but I see it’s no good.  Read it, and I think I’ll go into the garden.”  He reached forward to get up.

Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, “No, I’ll go”; and was gone.

Jolyon sank back in his chair.  A blue-bottle chose that moment to come buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better than nothing....  Where had the boy gone to read his letter?  The wretched letter—­the wretched story!  A cruel business—­cruel to her—­to Soames—­to those two children—­to himself!...  His heart thumped and pained him.  Life—­its loves—­its work—­its beauty—­its aching, and—­its end!  A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until—­you regretted that you had ever been born.  Life—­it wore you down, yet did not make you want to die—­that was the cunning evil!  Mistake to have a heart!  Again the blue-bottle came buzzing—­bringing in all the heat and hum and scent of summer—­yes, even the scent—­as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows.  And out there somewhere in the fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble—­breaking his heart about it!  The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable.  Jon was such a tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious, too—­it