Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as theporter met him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face — a narrower replica of his father’s, with the samelarge drooping moustache — decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing inthe world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, thefather said:

“How are you, my boy?”

The son answered:

“How are you, Dad?”

Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.

“If you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.”

And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab.

To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. ‘More of a man altogether,’ was his comment. Over the natural amiabilityof that son’s face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessityfor armour. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a studentor philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years.

To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock — he looked so worn and old. But in the cab heseemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed.

“You look well, Dad.”

“Middling,” old Jolyon answered.

He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he mustknow what was his financial position.

“Jo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re in. I suppose you’re in debt?”

He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.

Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice: