large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs.
Small, Aunt Hester, by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who
had come in again to return 'Passion and Paregoric' which she had read at
lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger's daughter (the musical Forsyte, the
one who composed songs), there was only one chair left unoccupied,
except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat on--and the only standing
room was occupied by the cat, on whom old Jolyon promptly stepped.

In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so many
visitors. The family had always, one and all, had a real respect for
Aunt Ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming far more frequently
to The Bower, and staying longer.

Swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red satin
chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting the others
out. And symbolizing Bosinney's name 'the big one,' with his great
stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy immovable shaven face,
he looked more primeval than ever in the highly upholstered room.

His conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon Irene, and he
had lost no time in giving Aunts Juley and Hester his opinion with regard
to this rumour he heard was going about. No--as he said--she might want a
bit of flirtation--a pretty woman must have her fling; but more than that
he did not believe. Nothing open; she had too much good sense, too much
proper appreciation of what was due to her position, and to the family!
No sc..., he was going to say 'scandal' but the very idea was so
preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say--'but let that
pass!'

Granted that Swithin took a bachelor's view of the situation--still what
indeed was not due to that family in which so many had done so well for
themselves, had attained a certain position? If he had heard in dark,
pessimistic moments the words 'yeomen' and 'very small beer' used in
connection with his origin, did he believe them?

No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret theory
that there was something distinguished somewhere in his ancestry.

"Must be," he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went to the
bad. "Look at us, we've got on! There must be good blood in us
somewhere."

He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set at
College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fiste's sons--a pretty
rascal one of them had turned out, too; a