as the chink again through
the parted curtains, which again closed too soon. This went on and on
and he never got through till he woke with the word "Irene" on his lips.
The dream disturbed him badly, especially that identification of himself
with Soames.

Next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours riding
Jolly's horse in search of fatigue. And on the second day he made up his
mind to move to London and see if he could not get permission to follow
his daughters to South Africa. He had just begun to pack the following
morning when he received this letter:

"GREEN HOTEL,

"June 13.

"RICHMOND.

"MY DEAR JOLYON,

"You will be surprised to see how near I am to you. Paris became
impossible--and I have come here to be within reach of your advice. I
would so love to see you again. Since you left Paris I don't think I
have met anyone I could really talk to. Is all well with you and with
your boy? No one knows, I think, that I am here at present.

"Always your friend,

"IRENE."

Irene within three miles of him!--and again in flight! He stood with a
very queer smile on his lips. This was more than he had bargained for!

About noon he set out on foot across Richmond Park, and as he went
along, he thought: 'Richmond Park! By Jove, it suits us Forsytes!' Not
that Forsytes lived there--nobody lived there save royalty, rangers, and
the deer--but in Richmond Park Nature was allowed to go so far and no
further, putting up a brave show of being natural, seeming to say: 'Look
at my instincts--they are almost passions, very nearly out of hand, but
not quite, of course; the very hub of possession is to possess oneself.'
Yes! Richmond Park possessed itself, even on that bright day of June,
with arrowy cuckoos shifting the tree-points of their calls, and the
wood doves announcing high summer.

The Green Hotel, which Jolyon entered at one o'clock, stood nearly
opposite that more famous hostelry, the Crown and Sceptre; it was
modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry tart, and
a dowager or two, so that a carriage and pair was almost always standing
before the door.

In a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, Irene
was sitting on a piano stool covered with crewel work, playing
'Hansel and Gretel' out of an old score. Above her on a wall, not yet
Morris-papered, was a print of the Queen on a pony, amongst deer-hounds,
Scotch caps, and slain stags; beside her in a pot