was so unfair, so damned unfair!  He remembered Irene saying to him once:  “Never was any one born more loving and lovable than Jon.”  Poor little Jon!  His world gone up the spout, all of a summer afternoon!  Youth took things so hard!  And stirred, tormented by that vision of Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his chair, and went to the window.  The boy was nowhere visible.  And he passed out.  If one could take any help to him now—­one must!

He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden—­no Jon!  Nor where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour.  He passed the Cupressus trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow.  Where had the boy got to?  Had he rushed down to the coppice—­his old hunting-ground?  Jolyon crossed the rows of hay.  They would cock it on Monday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off.  Often they had crossed this field together—­hand in hand, when Jon was a little chap.  Dash it!  The golden age was over by the time one was ten!  He came to the pond, where flies and gnats were dancing over a bright reedy surface; and on into the coppice.  It was cool there, fragrant of larches.  Still no Jon!  He called.  No answer!  On the log seat he sat down, nervous, anxious, forgetting his own physical sensations.  He had been wrong to let the boy get away with that letter; he ought to have kept him under his eye from the start!  Greatly troubled, he got up to retrace his steps.  At the farm-buildings he called again, and looked into the dark cow-house.  There in the cool, and the scent of vanilla and ammonia, away from flies, the three Alderneys were chewing the quiet cud; just milked, waiting for evening, to be turned out again into the lower field.  One turned a lazy head, a lustrous eye; Jolyon could see the slobber on its grey lower lip.  He saw everything with passionate clearness, in the agitation of his nerves—­all that in his time he had adored and tried to paint—­wonder of light and shade and colour.  No wonder the legend put Christ into a manger—­what more devotional than the eyes and moon-white horns of a chewing cow in the warm dusk!  He called again.  No answer!  And he hurried away out of the coppice, past the pond, up the hill.  Oddly ironical—­now he came to think of it—­if Jon had taken the gruel of his discovery down in the coppice where his mother and Bosinney in those old days had made the plunge of acknowledging their love.  Where he himself, on the log seat the Sunday morning he came back from Paris, had realised to the full that Irene had become the world to him.  That would have been the place for Irony to tear the veil from before the eyes of Irene’s boy!  But he was not here!  Where had he got to?  One must find the poor chap!