ry, and, followed by him, old Jolyon passed
into his study and out into the burning afternoon. He meant to go down
and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he could not manage that in
this heat. He sat down instead under the oak tree by the swing, and the
dog Balthasar, who also felt the heat, lay down beside him. He sat there
smiling. What a revel of bright minutes! What a hum of insects, and
cooing of pigeons! It was the quintessence of a summer day. Lovely!
And he was happy--happy as a sand-boy, whatever that might be. She was
coming; she had not given him up! He had everything in life he
wanted--except a little more breath, and less weight--just here! He
would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying just a
little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and
'soldiers' on the lawn--the soldiers with their flowery crowns. He would
not move, but she would come up to him and say: 'Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am
sorry!' and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he
had not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her
hand. That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good dog.

It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only
make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the Grand Stand at
Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows cropping the clover in the
field and swishing at the flies with their tails. He smelled the scent
of limes, and lavender. Ah! that was why there was such a racket of
bees. They were excited--busy, as his heart was busy and excited.
Drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was
drugged and drowsy. Summer--summer--they seemed saying; great bees and
little bees, and the flies too!

The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. He would
have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little sleep of late; and
then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and beauty, coming
towards him across the sunlit lawn--lady in grey! And settling back in
his chair he closed his eyes. Some thistle-down came on what little air
there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. He did
not know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight
struck through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and
strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge of
slumber reached the brain benea