e
reached forward to get up.

Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly: "No, I'll go"; and was
gone.

Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to come
buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better
than nothing.... Where had the boy gone to read his letter? The
wretched letter--the wretched story! A cruel business--cruel to her--to
Soames--to those two children--to himself!... His heart thumped and
pained him. Life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its aching, and--its
end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until--you regretted
that you had ever been born. Life--it wore you down, yet did not make
you want to die--that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart!
Again the blue-bottle came buzzing--bringing in all the heat and hum
and scent of summer--yes, even the scent--as of ripe fruits, dried
grasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out there
somewhere in the fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning
and twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and
trouble-breaking his heart about it! The thought made Jolyon acutely
miserable. Jon was such a tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his
bones, and conscientious, too--it was so damned unfair! He remembered
Irene saying to him once: "Never was any one born more loving and
lovable than Jon." Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of
a summer afternoon! Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormented
by that vision of Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his
chair, and went to the window. The boy was nowhere visible. And he
passed out. If one could take any help to him now--one must!

He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden--no Jon! Nor
where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour.
He passed the Cupressus-trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow. Where
had the boy got to? Had he rushed down to the coppice--his old
hunting-ground? Jolyon crossed the rows of hay. They would cock it on
Monday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off. Often they had
crossed this field together--hand in hand, when Jon was a little chap.
Dash it! The golden age was over by the time one was ten! He came to
the pond, where flies and gnats were dancing over a bright reedy
surface; and on into the coppice. It was cool there, fragrant of
larches. Still no Jon! He called. No answer! On the log seat he sat
down, nervous, anxious, forgettin