s if his feeling for beauty had received some definite
embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of the old oak-tree, its leaves
were browning. Sunshine had been plentiful and hot this summer. As with
trees, so with men's lives! 'I ought to live long,' thought Jolyon; 'I'm
getting mildewed for want of heat. If I can't work, I shall be off to
Paris.' But memory of Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how could he
go? He must stay and see what Soames was going to do. 'I'm her trustee.
I can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. It had been striking him
as curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little
drawing-room which he had only twice entered. Her beauty must have a
sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her justice;
the essence of her was--ah I what?... The noise of hoofs called him back
to the other window. Holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed
'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to her. She had been rather silent
lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her future, as they
all did--youngsters!

Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste this
swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up his brush.
But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye--besides, the light
was going. 'I'll go up to town,' he thought. In the hall a servant met
him.

"A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron."

Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as it was
still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window.

She came towards him saying:

"I've been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden. I
always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon."

"You couldn't trespass here," replied Jolyon; "history makes that
impossible. I was just thinking of you."

Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere
spirituality--serener, completer, more alluring.

"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was for
ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts."

Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last?

"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a
natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them."

"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a thing that
frightened me. He said: 'You are still my wife!'"

"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he
continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that w