Jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan.

“You are nineteen, Jon, and I am seventy-two.  How are we to understand each other in a matter like this, eh?”

“You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel.  It isn’t fair to us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?”

Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do without it if by any means he could.  He laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

“Look, Jon!  I might put you off with talk about your both being too young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn’t listen, besides, it doesn’t meet the case—­Youth, unfortunately, cures itself.  You talk lightly about ‘old things like that,’ knowing nothing—­as you say truly—­of what happened.  Now, have I ever given you reason to doubt my love for you, or my word?”

At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict his words aroused—­the boy’s eager clasp, to reassure him on these points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze.

“Very well, you can believe what I tell you.  If you don’t give up this love affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her days.  Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can’t be buried—­it can’t indeed.”

Jon got off the arm of the chair.

’The girl’—­thought Jolyon—­’there she goes—­starting up before him —­life itself—­eager, pretty, loving!’

“I can’t, Father; how can I—­just because you say that?  Of course, I can’t!”

“Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation; you would have to!  Can’t you believe me?”

“How can you tell what I should think?  Father, I love her better than anything in the world.”

Jolyon’s face twitched, and he said with painful slowness: 

“Better than your mother, Jon?”

From the boy’s face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the stress and struggle he was going through.

“I don’t know,” he burst out, “I don’t know!  But to give Fleur up for nothing—­for something I don’t understand, for something that I don’t believe can really matter half so much, will make me—­make me”

“Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier—­yes.  But that’s better than going on with this.”

“I can’t.  Fleur loves me, and I love her.  You want me to trust you; why don’t you trust me, Father?  We wouldn’t want to know anything—­we wouldn’t let it make any difference.  It’ll only make us both love you and Mother all the more.”

Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth.

“Think what your mother’s been to you, Jon!  She has nothing but you; I shan’t last much longer.”

“Why not?  It isn’t fair to—­Why not?”

“Well,” said Jolyon, rather coldly, “because the doctors tell me I shan’t; that’s all.”