er, and said with a sort of fatigue: "Well,
Jon, if you hadn't come to-day, I was going to send you this. I wanted
to spare you--I wanted to spare your mother and myself, but I see it's no
good. Read it, and I think I'll go into the garden." He reached forward
to get up.

Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, "No, I'll go"; and was gone.

Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to come
buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better than
nothing.... Where had the boy gone to read his letter? The wretched
letter--the wretched story! A cruel business--cruel to her--to
Soames--to those two children--to himself!... His heart thumped and
pained him. Life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its aching, and--its
end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until--you regretted that
you had ever been born. Life--it wore you down, yet did not make you
want to die--that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart! Again
the blue-bottle came buzzing--bringing in all the heat and hum and scent
of summer--yes, even the scent--as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy
shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out there somewhere in the
fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its
pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble--breaking his heart
about it! The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable. Jon was such a
tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious,
too--it was so unfair, so damned unfair! He remembered Irene saying to
him once: "Never was any one born more loving and lovable than Jon." Poor
little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of a summer afternoon!
Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormented by that vision of
Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his chair, and went to the
window. The boy was nowhere visible. And he passed out. If one could
take any help to him now--one must!

He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden--no Jon! Nor
where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour.
He passed the Cupressus trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow. Where
had the boy got to? Had he rushed down to the coppice--his old
hunting-ground? Jolyon crossed the rows of hay. They would cock it on
Monday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off. Often they had
crossed this field together--hand in hand, when Jon was a little chap.
Dash it! The golden age