“No; I don’t know that I want to hunt.  It must be awfully exciting, of course; but it’s cruel, isn’t it?  June says so.”

“Cruel?” ejaculated Val.  “Oh! that’s all rot.  Who’s June?”

“My sister—­my half-sister, you know—­much older than me.”  She had put her hands up to both cheeks of Jolly’s horse, and was rubbing her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise which seemed to have an hypnotic effect on the animal.  Val contemplated her cheek resting against the horse’s nose, and her eyes gleaming round at him.  ’She’s really a duck,’ he thought.

They returned to the house less talkative, followed this time by the dog Balthasar, walking more slowly than anything on earth, and clearly expecting them not to exceed his speed limit.

“This is a ripping place,” said Val from under the oak tree, where they had paused to allow the dog Balthasar to come up.

“Yes,” said Holly, and sighed.  “Of course I want to go everywhere.  I wish I were a gipsy.”

“Yes, gipsies are jolly,” replied Val, with a conviction which had just come to him; “you’re rather like one, you know.”

Holly’s face shone suddenly and deeply, like dark leaves gilded by the sun.

“To go mad-rabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in the open—­oh! wouldn’t it be fun?”

“Let’s do it!” said Val.

“Oh yes, let’s!”

“It’d be grand sport, just you and I.”

Then Holly perceived the quaintness and gushed.

“Well, we’ve got to do it,” said Val obstinately, but reddening too.

“I believe in doing things you want to do.  What’s down there?”

“The kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm.”

“Let’s go down!”

Holly glanced back at the house.

“It’s tea-time, I expect; there’s Dad beckoning.”

Val, uttering a growly sound, followed her towards the house.

When they re-entered the hall gallery the sight of two middle-aged Forsytes drinking tea together had its magical effect, and they became quite silent.  It was, indeed, an impressive spectacle.  The two were seated side by side on an arrangement in marqueterie which looked like three silvery pink chairs made one, with a low tea-table in front of them.  They seemed to have taken up that position, as far apart as the seat would permit, so that they need not look at each other too much; and they were eating and drinking rather than talking—­Soames with his air of despising the tea-cake as it disappeared, Jolyon of finding himself slightly amusing.  To the casual eye neither would have seemed greedy, but both were getting through a good deal of sustenance.  The two young ones having been supplied with food, the process went on silent and absorbative, till, with the advent of cigarettes, Jolyon said to Soames: 

“And how’s Uncle James?”

“Thanks, very shaky.”