Having his father’s perennial sympathy with Youth, he used to get very tired from entering into their points of view.  But it was all stimulating, and he never failed in admiration of his daughter’s indomitable spirit.  Even genius itself attended these gatherings now and then, with its nose on one side; and June always introduced it to her father.  This, she felt, was exceptionally good for him, for genius was a natural symptom he had never had—­fond as she was of him.

Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often wondered whence she got herself—­her red-gold hair, now greyed into a special colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own rather folded and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, when he and most of the Forsytes were tall.  And he would dwell on the origin of species, and debate whether she might be Danish or Celtic.  Celtic, he thought, from her pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs.  It was not too much to say that he preferred her to the Age with which she was surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was.  She took, however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had some of those natural symptoms.  Her dentist at once found “Staphylococcus aureus present in pure culture” (which might cause boils, of course), and wanted to take out all the teeth he had and supply him with two complete sets of unnatural symptoms.  Jolyon’s native tenacity was roused, and in the studio that evening he developed his objections.  He had never had any boils, and his own teeth would last his time.  Of course—­June admitted—­they would last his time if he didn’t have them out!  But if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would be longer.  His recalcitrance—­she said—­was a symptom of his whole attitude; he was taking it lying down.  He ought to be fighting.  When was he going to see the man who had cured Paul Post?  Jolyon was very sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him.  June chafed.  Pondridge—­she said—­the healer, was such a fine man, and he had such difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories recognised.  It was just such indifference and prejudice as her father manifested which was keeping him back.  It would be so splendid for both of them!

“I perceive,” said Jolyon, “that you are trying to kill two birds with one stone.”

“To cure, you mean!” cried June.

“My dear, it’s the same thing.”

June protested.  It was unfair to say that without a trial.

Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after.

“Dad!” cried June, “you’re hopeless.”

“That,” said Jolyon, “is a fact, but I wish to remain hopeless as long as possible.  I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child.  They are quiet at present.”

“That’s not giving science a chance,” cried June.  “You’ve no idea how devoted Pondridge is.  He puts his science before everything.”