ue or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked,
stared, they had a sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart
felt queer, warm, as if elated.

"Ma petite fleur!" Annette said softly.

"Fleur," repeated Soames: "Fleur! we'll call her that."

The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him.

By God! this--this thing was his! By God! this--this thing was his!

THE FORSYTE SAGA

Part 3

AWAKENING and TO LET

By John Galsworthy

AWAKENING

TO LET

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER

AWAKENING

Through the massive skylight illuminating the hall at Robin Hill, the
July sunlight at five o'clock fell just where the broad stairway turned;
and in that radiant streak little Jon Forsyte stood, blue-linen-suited.
His hair was shining, and his eyes, from beneath a frown, for he was
considering how to go downstairs, this last of innumerable times, before
the car brought his father and mother home. Four at a time, and five at
the bottom? Stale! Down the banisters? But in which fashion? On his
face, feet foremost? Very stale. On his stomach, sideways? Paltry! On
his back, with his arms stretched down on both sides? Forbidden! Or on
his face, head foremost, in a manner unknown as yet to any but himself?
Such was the cause of the frown on the illuminated face of little Jon....

In that Summer of 1909 the simple souls who even then desired to simplify
the English tongue, had, of course, no cognizance of little Jon, or they
would have claimed him for a disciple. But one can be too simple in this
life, for his real name was Jolyon, and his living father and dead
half-brother had usurped of old the other shortenings, Jo and Jolly. As
a fact little Jon had done his best to conform to convention and spell
himself first Jhon, then John; not till his father had explained the
sheer necessity, had he spelled his name Jon.

Up till now that father had possessed what was left of his heart by the
groom, Bob, who played the concertina, and his nurse "Da," who wore the
violet dress on Sundays, and enjoyed the name of Spraggins in that
private life lived at odd moments even by domestic servants. His mother
had only appeared to him, as it were in dreams, smelling delicious,
smoothing his forehead just before he fell asleep, and sometimes docking
his hair, of a golden brown colour. When he cut his head open against
the nursery fender she was there to be bled over; and when he had
nightm