That night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious of a scent of violets.  Opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in grey, standing by the fireplace, holding out her arms.  The odd thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they were curved as if round someone’s neck, and her own neck was bent back, her lips open, her eyes closed.  She vanished at once, and there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes.  But those bronzes and the mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only the fireplace and the wall!  Shaken and troubled, he got up.  ’I must take medicine,’ he thought; ‘I can’t be well.’  His heart beat too fast, he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the window, he opened it to get some air.  A dog was barking far away, one of the dogs at Gage’s farm no doubt, beyond the coppice.  A beautiful still night, but dark.  ‘I dropped off,’ he mused, ’that’s it!  And yet I’ll swear my eyes were open!’ A sound like a sigh seemed to answer.

“What’s that?” he said sharply, “who’s there?”

Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he stepped out on the terrace.  Something soft scurried by in the dark.  “Shoo!” It was that great grey cat.  ’Young Bosinney was like a great cat!’ he thought.  ’It was him in there, that she—­that she was—­He’s got her still!’ He walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn.  Here to-day and gone to-morrow!  And there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and didn’t care a dump!  His own turn soon.  For a single day of youth he would give what was left!  And he turned again towards the house.  He could see the windows of the night nursery up there.  His little sweet would be asleep.  ’Hope that dog won’t wake her!’ he thought.  ’What is it makes us love, and makes us die!  I must go to bed.’

And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed back within.

How should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his well-spent past?  In that, at all events, there is no agitating warmth, only pale winter sunshine.  The shell can withstand the gentle beating of the dynamos of memory.  The present he should distrust; the future shun.  From beneath thick shade he should watch the sunlight creeping at his toes.  If there be sun of summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the Indian-summer sun!  Thus peradventure he shall decline softly, slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient Nature clutches his wind-pipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before the world is aired, and they put on his tombstone:  ‘In the fulness of years!’ yea!  If he preserve his principles in perfect order, a Forsyte may live on long after he is dead.