little bodies; the grass felt springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed; butterflies chased each other.  After that painful scene the quiet of Nature was wonderfully poignant.  Under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow strip of garden-bed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came a low hum in which all other sounds were set—­the mooing of a cow deprived of her calf, the calling of a cuckoo from an elm-tree at the bottom of the meadow.  Who would have thought that behind them, within ten miles, London began—­that London of the Forsytes, with its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; its jumbled stone isles of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and stucco?  That London which had seen Irene’s early tragedy, and Jolyon’s own hard days; that web; that princely workhouse of the possessive instinct!

And while they walked Jolyon pondered those words:  ’I hope you’ll treat him as you treated me.’  That would depend on himself.  Could he trust himself?  Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave of what he adored?  Could beauty be confided to him?  Or should she not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing?  ‘We are a breed of spoilers!’ thought Jolyon, ’close and greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us.  Let her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not.  Let me be just her stand-by, her perching-place; never-never her cage!’

She was the chink of beauty in his dream.  Was he to pass through the curtains now and reach her?  Was the rich stuff of many possessions, the close encircling fabric of the possessive instinct walling in that little black figure of himself, and Soames—­was it to be rent so that he could pass through into his vision, find there something not of the senses only?  ‘Let me,’ he thought, ’ah! let me only know how not to grasp and destroy!’

But at dinner there were plans to be made.  To-night she would go back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to London.  He must instruct his solicitor—­Jack Herring.  Not a finger must be raised to hinder the process of the Law.  Damages exemplary, judicial strictures, costs, what they liked—­let it go through at the first moment, so that her neck might be out of chancery at last!  To-morrow he would see Herring—­they would go and see him together.  And then—­abroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth.  He looked round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a woman was sitting there.  The spirit of universal beauty, deep, mysterious, which the old painters, Titian, Giorgione, Botticelli, had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women—­this flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her brow, her hair, her lips, and in her eyes.

‘And this is to be mine!’ he thought.  ‘It frightens me!’