used to."

He enjoyed that stroll to the Kensington end of the gardens--the sound of
her voice, the glancing of her eyes, the subtle beauty of a charming form
moving beside him. He enjoyed their tea at Ruffel's in the High Street,
and came out thence with a great box of chocolates swung on his little
finger. He enjoyed the drive back to Chelsea in a hansom, smoking his
cigar. She had promised to come down next Sunday and play to him again,
and already in thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her
to carry back to town. It was a pleasure to give her a little pleasure,
if it WERE pleasure from an old chap like him! The carriage was already
there when they arrived. Just like that fellow, who was always late when
he was wanted! Old Jolyon went in for a minute to say good-bye. The
little dark hall of the flat was impregnated with a disagreeable odour of
patchouli, and on a bench against the wall--its only furniture--he saw a
figure sitting. He heard Irene say softly: "Just one minute." In the
little drawing-room when the door was shut, he asked gravely: "One of
your protegees?"

"Yes. Now thanks to you, I can do something for her."

He stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had frightened
so many in its time. The idea of her thus actually in contact with this
outcast grieved and frightened him. What could she do for them?
Nothing. Only soil and make trouble for herself, perhaps. And he said:
"Take care, my dear! The world puts the worst construction on
everything."

"I know that."

He was abashed by her quiet smile. "Well then--Sunday," he murmured:
"Good-bye."

She put her cheek forward for him to kiss.

"Good-bye," he said again; "take care of yourself." And he went out, not
looking towards the figure on the bench. He drove home by way of
Hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and tell them to
send her in two dozen of their best Burgundy. She must want picking-up
sometimes! Only in Richmond Park did he remember that he had gone up to
order himself some boots, and was surprised that he could have had so
paltry an idea.

III

The little spirits of the past which throng an old man's days had never
pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy hours elapsing
before Sunday came. The spirit of the future, with the charm of the
unknown, put up her lips instead. Old Jolyon was not restless now, and
paid no visits to the log, because s