there several months, and come back with the younger face and the short fair beard.  Essentially a man who merely lodged in any house, it had suited him perfectly that June should reign at Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when he liked.  She was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather as an asylum for her proteges! but his own outcast days had filled Jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, and June’s ‘lame ducks’ about the place did not annoy him.  By all means let her have them down—­and feed them up; and though his slightly cynical humour perceived that they ministered to his daughter’s love of domination as well as moved her warm heart, he never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks.  He fell, indeed, year by year into a more and more detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical equality.  When he went down to Harrow to see Jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and would sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical smile twisting up an eyebrow and curling his lips a little.  And he was always careful to have money in his pocket, and to be modish in his dress, so that his son need not blush for him.  They were perfect friends, but never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the competitive self-consciousness of Forsytes.  They knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk about it.  Jolyon had a striking horror—­partly original sin, but partly the result of his early immorality—­of the moral attitude.  The most he could ever have said to his son would have been: 

“Look here, old man; don’t forget you’re a gentleman,” and then have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish sentiment.  The great cricket match was perhaps the most searching and awkward time they annually went through together, for Jolyon had been at Eton.  They would be particularly careful during that match, continually saying:  “Hooray!  Oh! hard luck, old man!” or “Hooray!  Oh! bad luck, Dad!” to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts bounded happened to the opposing school.  And Jolyon would wear a grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, to save his son’s feelings, for a black top hat he could not stomach.  When Jolly went up to Oxford, Jolyon went up with him, amused, humble, and a little anxious not to discredit his boy amongst all these youths who seemed so much more assured and old than himself.  He often thought, ‘Glad I’m a painter’ for he had long dropped under-writing at Lloyds—­’it’s so innocuous.  You can’t look down on a painter—­you can’t take him seriously enough.’  For Jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set, who secretly amused his father.  The boy had fair hair which curled a little, and his grandfather’s deepset iron-grey eyes.  He was well-built and very upright, and always pleased Jolyon’s aesthetic sense, so that he was a tiny bit afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of their own sex whom they admire physically.  On that occasion, however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son advice, and this was it: