utal life was?
Ever since he knew of his boy's arrival at Cape Town the thought of
him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in Jolyon. He could not get
reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was in danger all the time. The
cablegram, grave though it was, was almost a relief. He was now safe
from bullets, anyway. And yet--this enteric was a virulent disease! The
Times was full of deaths therefrom. Why could he not be lying out there
in that up-country hospital, and his boy safe at home? The un-Forsytean
self-sacrifice of his three children, indeed, had quite bewildered
Jolyon. He would eagerly change places with Jolly, because he loved his
boy; but no such personal motive was influencing them. He could only
think that it marked the decline of the Forsyte type.

Late that afternoon Holly came out to him under the old oak-tree. She
had grown up very much during these last months of hospital training
away from home. And, seeing her approach, he thought: 'She has more
sense than June, child though she is; more wisdom. Thank God she isn't
going out.' She had seated herself in the swing, very silent and still.
'She feels this,' thought Jolyon, 'as much as I' and, seeing her eyes
fixed on him, he said: "Don't take it to heart too much, my child. If he
weren't ill, he might be in much greater danger."

Holly got out of the swing.

"I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly
enlisted and went out."

"How's that?"

"When you were away in Paris, Val Dartie and I fell in love. We used to
ride in Richmond Park; we got engaged. Jolly found it out, and thought
he ought to stop it; so he dared Val to enlist. It was all my fault,
Dad; and I want to go out too. Because if anything happens to either of
them I should feel awful. Besides, I'm just as much trained as June."

Jolyon gazed at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. So
this was the answer to the riddle he had been asking himself; and his
three children were Forsytes after all. Surely Holly might have told
him all this before! But he smothered the sarcastic sayings on his
lips. Tenderness to the young was perhaps the most sacred article of his
belief. He had got, no doubt, what he deserved. Engaged! So this was
why he had so lost touch with her! And to young Val Dartie--nephew of
Soames--in the other camp! It was all terribly distasteful. He closed
his easel, and set his drawing against the tree.

"Have you told June?"

"Yes; she says she'l