who ever lived—­and to me the dearest.”  Jolyon’s voice had lost its irony, and his son and daughter gazed at him solemnly, “He was just and tenacious, tender and young at heart.  You remember him, and I remember him.  Pass to the others!  Your great-uncle James, that’s young Val’s grandfather, had a son called Soames—­whereby hangs a tale of no love lost, and I don’t think I’ll tell it you.  James and the other eight children of ‘Superior Dosset,’ of whom there are still five alive, may be said to have represented Victorian England, with its principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your money back—­if you know what that means.  At all events they’ve turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million between them in the course of their long lives.  They never did a wild thing—­unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe was once swindled at thimble-rig, and was called ‘Four-in-hand Forsyte’ because he drove a pair.  Their day is passing, and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country.  They were pedestrian, but they too were sound.  I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte—­a poor holder of the name—­”

“No, Dad,” said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.

“Yes,” repeated Jolyon, “a poor specimen, representing, I’m afraid, nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and individual liberty—­a different thing from individualism, Jolly.  You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new century.”

As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said:  “It’s fascinating, Dad.”

None of them quite knew what she meant.  Jolly was grave.

The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-room, in which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, when the only guest arrived.  Rather as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand.  And wouldn’t she wear this ‘measly flower’?  It would look ripping in her hair.  He removed a gardenia from his coat.

“Oh!  No, thank you—­I couldn’t!” But she took it and pinned it at her neck, having suddenly remembered that word ‘showy’!  Val’s buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like him.  Did she realise that Val was at his best and quietest in her presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction for her?

“I never said anything about our ride, Val.”

“Rather not!  It’s just between us.”

By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too—­the wish to make him happy.

“Do tell me about Oxford.  It must be ever so lovely.”

Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; the lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps.  “Only,” he added, “of course I wish I was in town, and could come down and see you.”