He felt tired to death now, and, going into his bedroom, undressed hurriedly and got into bed. He wished with all his heart that he were on board, under the British flag. ‘I’m old,’ he thought suddenly, ‘old.’ This America was too young for him, so full of energy, bustling about to ends he could not see. Those Eastern places had been different. And yet, after all, he was a mere seventy. His father had lived to be ninety—old Jolyon eighty-five, Timothy a hundred, and so with all the old Forsytes. At seventy THEY weren’t playing golf; and yet they were younger, younger anyway than he felt to-night. The sight of that woman had—had—! Old!

‘I’m not going back to be old,’ he thought. ‘If I feel like this again I shall consult someone.’ They had some monkey thing nowadays they could inject. He shouldn’t try that. Monkeys indeed! Why not pigs or tigers? Hold on somehow another ten or fifteen years! By that time they would have found out where they were in England. That precious capital levy would have been exploded. He would know what he had to leave to Fleur; would see her baby grow into a boy and go to school—public school—even! Eton? No—young Jolyon had been there. Winchester, the Monts’ school? Not there either, if he could help it. Harrow was handy; or his own old school—Marlborough? Perhaps he would see him play at Lord’s. Another fifteen years before Kit could play at Lord’s! Well—something to look forward to, something to hold on for. If you hadn’t that, you felt old, and if you FELT old, you WERE old, and the end soon came. How well that woman had worn! She—! There were his pictures too; take them up more seriously. That Freer Gallery! Leave them to the nation, and your name lived—much comfort in THAT! She! SHE would never die!

A crack of light on the wall close to the door.

“Asleep, Dad?”