James, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little chair, suddenly roused himself:  “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin,” he said, but in a half-hearted way.

Old Jolyon’s silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of paralysis.  He was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own words—­an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the very rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry.

He had not done with them yet—­No, no—­he would give them another rub or two.

He did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them—­a young and presentable female always appealed to old Jolyon’s clemency—­but that fellow James, and, in a less degree perhaps, those others, deserved all they would get.  And he, too, asked for Timothy.

As though feeling that some danger threatened her younger brother, Aunt Juley suddenly offered him tea:  “There it is,” she said, “all cold and nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing room, but Smither shall make you some fresh.”

Old Jolyon rose:  “Thank you,” he said, looking straight at James, “but I’ve no time for tea, and—­scandal, and the rest of it!  It’s time I was at home.  Good-bye, Julia; good-bye, Hester; good-bye, Winifred.”

Without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out.

Once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was with his wrath—­when he had rapped out, it was gone.  Sadness came over his spirit.  He had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at what a cost!  At the cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he had been resolved not to believe was true.  June was abandoned, and for the wife of that fellow’s son!  He felt it was true, and hardened himself to treat it as if it were not; but the pain he hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely, to vent itself in a blind resentment against James and his son.

The six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room began talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for though each one of them knew for a fact that he or she never talked scandal, each one of them also knew that the other six did; all were therefore angry and at a loss.  James only was silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his soul.

Presently Francie said:  “Do you know, I think Uncle Jolyon is terribly changed this last year.  What do you think, Aunt Hester?”

Aunt Hester made a little movement of recoil:  “Oh, ask your Aunt Julia!” she said; “I know nothing about it.”

No one else was afraid of assenting, and James muttered gloomily at the floor:  “He’s not half the man he was.”

“I’ve noticed it a long time,” went on Francie; “he’s aged tremendously.”

Aunt Juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have become one immense pout.

“Poor dear Jolyon,” she said, “somebody ought to see to it for him!”

There was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and took their departure.