“Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “it’s Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! So it is! Haven’t seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Timesaren’t what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that auctioneer — Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry — you used tohave six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are you, sir? We don’t get younger!”

The colour in old Jolyon’s eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds ofthe overture, like an old war-horse to battle.

Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long lookround the house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes on the curtain. More poignantly than ever hefelt that it was all over and done with him. Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to be so full of?Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers? Where that sensation of theintoxication of life and of his own power to enjoy it all?

The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, norany voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at hisheart.

From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsyor weak about old Jolyon. He was as upright — very nearly — as in those old times when he came every night; his sight was asgood — almost as good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion!