before the Industrial Era began. The second Jolyon Forsyte--your
great-grandfather, Jolly; better known as Superior Dosset Forsyte--built
houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten children, and migrated to
London town. It is known that he drank sherry. We may suppose him
representing the England of Napoleon's wars, and general unrest. The
eldest of his six sons was the third Jolyon, your grandfather, my
dears--tea merchant and chairman of companies, one of the soundest
Englishmen who ever lived--and to me the dearest." Jolyon's voice had
lost its irony, and his son and daughter gazed at him solemnly, "He was
just and tenacious, tender and young at heart. You remember him, and I
remember him. Pass to the others! Your great-uncle James, that's young
Val's grandfather, had a son called Soames--whereby hangs a tale of no
love lost, and I don't think I'll tell it you. James and the other eight
children of 'Superior Dosset,' of whom there are still five alive, may
be said to have represented Victorian England, with its principles of
trade and individualism at five per cent. and your money back--if you
know what that means. At all events they've turned thirty thousand
pounds into a cool million between them in the course of their long
lives. They never did a wild thing--unless it was your great-uncle
Swithin, who I believe was once swindled at thimble-rig, and was called
'Four-in-hand Forsyte' because he drove a pair. Their day is passing,
and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country.
They were pedestrian, but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon
Forsyte--a poor holder of the name--"

"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.

"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid,
nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and
individual liberty--a different thing from individualism, Jolly. You
are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new
century."

As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said:
"It's fascinating, Dad."

None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave.

The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for lack
of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-room, in
which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, when the only
guest arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand. And
wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? It wou