he had set out on the first day as if to visit an adored work of art, a well-nigh impersonal desire.  The future—­inexorable pendant to the present he took care not to face, for fear of breaking up his untroubled manner; but he made plans to renew this time in places still more delightful, where the sun was hot and there were strange things to see and paint.  The end came swiftly on the 20th of January with a telegram: 

“Have enlisted in Imperial Yeomanry.  Jolly.”

Jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the Louvre.  It brought him up with a round turn.  While he was lotus-eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought to be, had taken this great step towards danger, hardship, perhaps even death.  He felt disturbed to the soul, realising suddenly how Irene had twined herself round the roots of his being.  Thus threatened with severance, the tie between them—­for it had become a kind of tie—­no longer had impersonal quality.  The tranquil enjoyment of things in common, Jolyon perceived, was gone for ever.  He saw his feeling as it was, in the nature of an infatuation.  Ridiculous, perhaps, but so real that sooner or later it must disclose itself.  And now, as it seemed to him, he could not, must not, make any such disclosure.  The news of Jolly stood inexorably in the way.  He was proud of this enlistment; proud of his boy for going off to fight for the country; for on Jolyon’s pro-Boerism, too, Black Week had left its mark.  And so the end was reached before the beginning!  Well, luckily he had never made a sign!

When he came into the Gallery she was standing before the ’Virgin of the Rocks,’ graceful, absorbed, smiling and unconscious.  ’Have I to give up seeing that?’ he thought.  ’It’s unnatural, so long as she’s willing that I should see her.’  He stood, unnoticed, watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the picture on which she was bending that long scrutiny.  Twice she turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought:  ‘That’s for me!’ At last he went forward.

“Look!” he said.

She read the telegram, and he heard her sigh.

That sigh, too, was for him!  His position was really cruel!  To be loyal to his son he must just shake her hand and go.  To be loyal to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that feeling was.  Could she, would she understand the silence in which he was gazing at that picture?

“I’m afraid I must go home at once,” he said at last.  “I shall miss all this awfully.”

“So shall I; but, of course, you must go.”

“Well!” said Jolyon holding out his hand.

Meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him.

“Such is life!” he said.  “Take care of yourself, my dear!”

He had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his brain refused to steer him away from her.  From the doorway, he saw her lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips.  He raised his hat solemnly, and did not look back again.