of
warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. And
Fleur infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, was there such a
thing as chance? A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head.
Ah! that was chance, no doubt. But this! "Inherited," his girl had
said. She--she was "holding on!"

PART III

I

OLD JOLYON WALKS

Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast: "Let's go
up to Lord's!"

"Wanted"--something to abate the anxiety in which those two had lived
during the sixty hours since Jon had brought Fleur down. "Wanted"--too,
that which might assuage the pangs of memory in one who knew he might
lose them any day!

Fifty-eight years ago Jolyon had become an Eton boy, for old Jolyon's
whim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possible
expense. Year after year he had gone to Lord's from Stanhope Gate with
a father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed without
polish in the game of cricket. Old Jolyon would speak quite openly of
swipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and young Jolyon
with the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest his sire should
be overheard. Only in this supreme matter of cricket he had been
nervous, for his father--in Crimean whiskers then--had ever impressed
him as the beau ideal. Though never canonised himself, old Jolyon's
natural fastidiousness and balance had saved him from the errors of the
vulgar. How delicious, after howling in a top hat and a sweltering
heat, to go home with his father in a hansom cab, bathe, dress, and
forth to the "Disunion" Club, to dine off whitebait, cutlets, and a
tart, and go--two "swells," old and young, in lavender kid gloves--to
the opera or play. And on Sunday, when the match was over, and his top
hat duly broken, down with his father in a special hansom to the "Crown
and Sceptre," and the terrace above the river--the golden sixties when
the world was simple, dandies glamorous, Democracy not born, and the
books of Whyte Melville coming thick and fast.

A generation later, with his own boy, Jolly, Harrow--buttonholed with
cornflowers--by old Jolyon's whim his grandson had been canonised at a
trifle less expense--again Jolyon had experienced the heat and
counter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and the
strawberry beds of Robin Hill, and billiards after dinner, his boy
making the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid and
grown-up. Thos