e only
grand-daughter of that fine-looking, and evidently wealthy, old Mr.
Forsyte. She did not mix freely with people--to mix freely with people
was not June's habit--but she formed some friendships, and notably one
in the Rhone Valley, with a French girl who was dying of consumption.

Determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, in the
institution of a campaign against Death, much of her own trouble.

Old Jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; for
this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst 'lame
ducks' worried him. Would she never make a friendship or take an
interest in something that would be of real benefit to her?

'Taking up with a parcel of foreigners,' he called it. He often,
however, brought home grapes or roses, and presented them to 'Mam'zelle'
with an ingratiating twinkle.

Towards the end of September, in spite of June's disapproval,
Mademoiselle Vigor breathed her last in the little hotel at St. Luc, to
which they had moved her; and June took her defeat so deeply to heart
that old Jolyon carried her away to Paris. Here, in contemplation of the
'Venus de Milo' and the 'Madeleine,' she shook off her depression,
and when, towards the middle of October, they returned to town, her
grandfather believed that he had effected a cure.

No sooner, however, had they established themselves in Stanhope Gate
than he perceived to his dismay a return of her old absorbed and
brooding manner. She would sit, staring in front of her, her chin on her
hand, like a little Norse spirit, grim and intent, while all around in
the electric light, then just installed, shone the great, drawing-room
brocaded up to the frieze, full of furniture from Baple and Pullbred's.
And in the huge gilt mirror were reflected those Dresden china groups
of young men in tight knee breeches, at the feet of full-bosomed ladies
nursing on their laps pet lambs, which old Jolyon had bought when he was
a bachelor and thought so highly of in these days of degenerate taste.
He was a man of most open mind, who, more than any Forsyte of them all,
had moved with the times, but he could never forget that he had bought
these groups at Jobson's, and given a lot of money for them. He often
said to June, with a sort of disillusioned contempt:

"You don't care about them! They're not the gimcrack things you and your
friends like, but they cost me seventy pounds!" He was not a man who
allowed his taste to