He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect things — and there had been many imperfectthings — he had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. But now he was deserted by his power ofenjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. Not even the Prisoners’ Chorus,nor Florian’s Song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness.

If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. AndJo was no longer a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had been unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of theaction by enclosing his son a cheque for L500. The cheque had been returned in a letter from the ‘Hotch Potch,’ couched inthese words.

‘MY DEAREST FATHER,

‘Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit toinvest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him Jolly), who bears our Christian and, by courtesy, our surname, Ishall be very glad.

‘I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever.

‘Your loving son,

‘Jo.’

The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap. Old Jolyon had sent this reply:

‘MY DEAR JO,

‘The sum (L500) stands in my books for the benefit of your boy, under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will beduly-credited with interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you are doing well. My health remains good at present.

‘With love, I am, ‘Your affectionate Father, ‘JOLYON FORSYTE.’

And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and the interest. The sum was mounting up — next New Year’sDay it would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to say how much satisfaction he had got out of thatyearly transaction. But the correspondence had ended.

In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of