ansion, with triumphs of art from Baple and Pullbred's; how he
could send little Jolly to Harrow and Oxford (he no longer had faith in
Eton and Cambridge, for his son had been there); how he could procure
little Holly the best musical instruction, the child had a remarkable
aptitude.

As these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his heart,
he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the little walled
strip of garden, where the pear-tree, bare of leaves before its time,
stood with gaunt branches in the slow-gathering mist of the autumn
afternoon. The dog Balthasar, his tail curled tightly over a piebald,
furry back, was walking at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and
at intervals placing his leg for support against the wall.

And old Jolyon mused.

What pleasure was there left but to give? It was pleasant to give, when
you could find one who would be thankful for what you gave--one of your
own flesh and blood! There was no such satisfaction to be had out of
giving to those who did not belong to you, to those who had no claim on
you! Such giving as that was a betrayal of the individualistic
convictions and actions of his life, of all his enterprise, his labour,
and his moderation, of the great and proud fact that, like tens of
thousands of Forsytes before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens
of thousands in the future, he had always made his own, and held his own,
in the world.

And, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered foliage of the
laurels, the black-stained grass-plot, the progress of the dog Balthasar,
all the suffering of the fifteen years during which he had been baulked
of legitimate enjoyment mingled its gall with the sweetness of the
approaching moment.

Young Jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from long
hours in the open air. On hearing that his father was in the drawing
room, he inquired hurriedly whether Mrs. Forsyte was at home, and being
informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of relief. Then putting his
painting materials carefully in the little coat-closet out of sight, he
went in.

With characteristic decision old Jolyon came at once to the point. "I've
been altering my arrangements, Jo," he said. "You can cut your coat a
bit longer in the future--I'm settling a thousand a year on you at once.
June will have fifty thousand at my death; and you the rest. That dog of
yours is spoiling the garden. I shouldn't keep