inciple crowning the chaotic strivings, the
petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as
near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone.

But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had taken
June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and had realized
bitterly that his walking days were over.

To that old mountain--given confidence in a supreme order of things he
had long been a stranger.

He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled him. It
troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had always been
so careful, should be father and grandfather to such as seemed born
to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo--who could say anything
against the boy, an amiable chap?--but his position was deplorable, and
this business of June's nearly as bad. It seemed like a fatality, and
a fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either
understand or put up with.

In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would come
of it. Since the ball at Roger's he had seen too clearly how the land
lay--he could put two and two together quicker than most men--and, with
the example of his own son before his eyes, knew better than any Forsyte
of them all that the pale flame singes men's wings whether they will or
no.

In the days before June's engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames were
always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the spell she cast
over men. She was not a flirt, not even a coquette--words dear to the
heart of his generation, which loved to define things by a good, broad,
inadequate word--but she was dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him
of a quality innate in some women--a seductive power beyond their own
control! He would but answer: 'Humbug!' She was dangerous, and there was
an end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it
was; he did not want to hear any more about it--he only wanted to save
June's position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she might once
more become a comfort to himself.

And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As to
what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was practically only
the queer sentence: 'I gather that he's in the stream.' The stream! What
stream? What was this new-fangled way of talking?

He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of the bag;
he knew well enough what was m