eyes, and at the look he saw in
them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips back in the
ghost of a smile.

"This is my house," he said; "I manage my own affairs. I've told you
once--I tell you again; we are not at home."

And in young Jolyon's face he slammed the door.

THE FORSYTE SAGA

By John Galsworthy

Part 2

Contents:
Indian Summer of a Forsyte
In Chancery

TO ANDRE CHEVRILLON

INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE

"And Summer's lease hath all
too short a date."
--Shakespeare
I

In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the
evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of
his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him,
before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where
blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering,
long-nailed fingers--a pointed polished nail had survived with him from
those earlier Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of
the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed forehead, great white
moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering
sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his
attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every
morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a
woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a Pomeranian--the dog Balthasar
between whom and old Jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment
with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was
seated one of Holly's dolls--called 'Duffer Alice'--with her body fallen
over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was
never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below
the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and,
beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice,
and the prospect--'Fine, remarkable'--at which Swithin Forsyte, from
under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with
Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had heard of his brother's
exploit--that drive which had become quite celebrated on Forsyte 'Change.
Swithin! And the fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of
only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether Forsytes could live for
ever, which h