To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible barbarity.  But no cultivated person would admit this.

The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had probably never even occurred to his father for instance; he belonged to the old school, who considered it at once humanizing and educational to confine baboons and panthers, holding the view, no doubt, that in course of time they might induce these creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery and heart-sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society to the expense of getting others!  In his eyes, as in the eyes of all Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a state of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts whom God had so improvidently placed in a state of freedom!  It was for the animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers of open air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their functions in the guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment!  Indeed, it was doubtful what wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages!

But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these views had been placed in a similar position to the animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations.  It was not until they were leaving the gardens—­Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium—­that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the matter next his heart.  “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said; “if she’s to go on as she’s going on now, I can’t tell what’s to come.  I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won’t.  She’s not a bit like me.  She’s your mother all over.  Obstinate as a mule!  If she doesn’t want to do a thing, she won’t, and there’s an end of it!”

Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father’s chin.  ’A pair of you,’ he thought, but he said nothing.

“And then,” went on old Jolyon, “there’s this Bosinney.  I should like to punch the fellow’s head, but I can’t, I suppose, though—­I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he added doubtfully.

“What has he done?  Far better that it should come to an end, if they don’t hit it off!”

Old Jolyon looked at his son.  Now they had actually come to discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt distrustful.  Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.

“Well, I don’t know what you think,” he said; “I dare say your sympathy’s with him—­shouldn’t be surprised; but I think he’s behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so.”  He dropped the subject.

It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of Bosinney’s defection.  Had not his son done the very same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago?  There seemed no end to the consequences of that piece of folly.