dea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was
instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should
go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman.

The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's,
tired him. It was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on
the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. He must have had a sort of
fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some
difficulty rose and rang the bell. Why! it was past seven! And there he
was and she would be waiting. But suddenly the dizziness came on again,
and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa. He heard the maid's voice
say:

"Did you ring, sir?"

"Yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of
his eyes. "I'm not well, I want some sal volatile."

"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded frightened.

Old Jolyon made an effort.

"Don't go. Take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a
lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well--the heat. He is very sorry;
if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner."

When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in grey--she
may be in anything. Sal volatile!' He did not go off again, yet was not
conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling
salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. He heard her
say anxiously: "Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of
the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of
smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed.

"Ha!" he said, "it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and
dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right in a
minute."

He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided
between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right.

"Why! You are in grey!" he said. "Help me up." Once on his feet he gave
himself a shake.

"What business had I to go off like that!" And he moved very slowly to
the glass. What a cadaverous chap! Her voice, behind him, murmured:

"You mustn't come down, Uncle; you must rest."

"Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. I can't
have you missing the opera."

But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets they had
in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every