ike one of those
figures from old-fashioned clocks when the hour strikes; and his words
sounded in Jolyon's ears clearer than any chime: "I manage my own
affairs. I've told you once, I tell you again: We are not at home." The
repugnance he had then felt for Soames--for his flat-cheeked, shaven face
full of spiritual bull-doggedness; for his spare, square, sleek figure
slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest--came now
again, fresh as ever, nay, with an odd increase. 'I dislike him,' he
thought, 'I dislike him to the very roots of me. And that's lucky; it'll
make it easier for me to back his wife.' Half-artist, and half-Forsyte,
Jolyon was constitutionally averse from what he termed 'ructions'; unless
angered, he conformed deeply to that classic description of the she-dog,
'Er'd ruther run than fight.' A little smile became settled in his
beard. Ironical that Soames should come down here--to this house, built
for himself! How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past
intention; furtively nosing at the walls and stairway, appraising
everything! And intuitively Jolyon thought: 'I believe the fellow even
now would like to be living here. He could never leave off longing for
what he once owned! Well, I must act, somehow or other; but it's a
bore--a great bore.'

Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene would see
him.

The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so
wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. Rumours of
war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the close of the
summer holidays. And the streets to Jolyon, who was not often up in
town, had a feverish look, due to these new motorcars and cabs, of which
he disapproved aesthetically. He counted these vehicles from his hansom,
and made the proportion of them one in twenty. 'They were one in thirty
about a year ago,' he thought; 'they've come to stay. Just so much more
rattling round of wheels and general stink'--for he was one of those
rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material
form; and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly, out
of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing
screen of plane-trees. At the little block of flats which stood back
some fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and
went up to the first floor.

Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home!

The effect of