“Ah!  I’m sorry Jolly’s away.  What college?”

“B.N.C.,” replied Val.

“Jolly’s at the ‘House,’ but he’ll be delighted to look you up.”

“Thanks awfully.”

“Holly’s in—­if you could put up with a female relation, she’d show you round.  You’ll find her in the hall if you go through the curtains.  I was just painting her.”

With another “Thanks, awfully!” Val vanished, leaving the two cousins with the ice unbroken.

“I see you’ve some drawings at the ‘Water Colours,’” said Soames.

Jolyon winced.  He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family at large for twenty-six years, but they were connected in his mind with Frith’s ‘Derby Day’ and Landseer prints.  He had heard from June that Soames was a connoisseur, which made it worse.  He had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said.

“No,” answered Soames between close lips, “not since—­as a matter of fact, it’s about that I’ve come.  You’re her trustee, I’m told.”

Jolyon nodded.

“Twelve years is a long time,” said Soames rapidly:  “I—­I’m tired of it.”

Jolyon found no more appropriate answer than: 

“Won’t you smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

Jolyon himself lit a cigarette.

“I wish to be free,” said Soames abruptly.

“I don’t see her,” murmured Jolyon through the fume of his cigarette.

“But you know where she lives, I suppose?”

Jolyon nodded.  He did not mean to give her address without permission. 
Soames seemed to divine his thought.

“I don’t want her address,” he said; “I know it.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“She deserted me.  I want a divorce.”

“Rather late in the day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Soames.  And there was a silence.

“I don’t know much about these things—­at least, I’ve forgotten,” said Jolyon with a wry smile.  He himself had had to wait for death to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolyon.  “Do you wish me to see her about it?”

Soames raised his eyes to his cousin’s face.  “I suppose there’s someone,” he said.

A shrug moved Jolyon’s shoulders.

“I don’t know at all.  I imagine you may have both lived as if the other were dead.  It’s usual in these cases.”

Soames turned to the window.  A few early fallen oak-leaves strewed the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind.  Jolyon saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the lawn towards the stables.  ‘I’m not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,’ he thought.  ‘I must act for her.  The Dad would have wished that.’  And for a swift moment he seemed to see his father’s figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soames, sitting with knees crossed, The Times in his hand.  It vanished.