ey's death; what she had done then, she could surely do again now.
Four years since that injury was inflicted on her--not Christian to keep
the memory of old sores alive. June's will was strong, but his was
stronger, for his sands were running out. Irene was soft, surely she
would do this for him, subdue her natural shrinking, sooner than give him
pain! The lessons must continue; for if they did, he was secure. And
lighting his cigar at last, he began trying to shape out how to put it to
them all, and explain this strange intimacy; how to veil and wrap it away
from the naked truth--that he could not bear to be deprived of the sight
of beauty. Ah! Holly! Holly was fond of her, Holly liked her lessons.
She would save him--his little sweet! And with that happy thought he
became serene, and wondered what he had been worrying about so fearfully.
He must not worry, it left him always curiously weak, and as if but half
present in his own body.

That evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, though he did
not faint. He would not ring the bell, because he knew it would mean a
fuss, and make his going up on the morrow more conspicuous. When one
grew old, the whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom, and for
what reason?--just to keep the breath in him a little longer. He did not
want it at such cost. Only the dog Balthasar saw his lonely recovery
from that weakness; anxiously watched his master go to the sideboard and
drink some brandy, instead of giving him a biscuit. When at last old
Jolyon felt able to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. And, though
still shaky next morning, the thought of the evening sustained and
strengthened him. It was always such a pleasure to give her a good
dinner--he suspected her of undereating when she was alone; and, at the
opera to watch her eyes glow and brighten, the unconscious smiling of her
lips. She hadn't much pleasure, and this was the last time he would be
able to give her that treat. But when he was packing his bag he caught
himself wishing that he had not the fatigue of dressing for dinner before
him, and the exertion, too, of telling her about June's return.

The opera that evening was 'Carmen,' and he chose the last entr'acte to
break the news, instinctively putting it off till the latest moment.

She took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she had taken
it before the wayward music lifted up again and silence became necessary.
The mas