t he could not conceive of his father
living in a smaller place; and all the more did it all seem ironical.

In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the figurehead of
his family and class and creed, with his white head and dome-like
forehead, the representative of moderation, and order, and love of
property. As lonely an old man as there was in London.

There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the power of
great forces that cared nothing for family or class or creed, but moved,
machine-like, with dread processes to inscrutable ends. This was how it
struck young Jolyon, who had the impersonal eye.

The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he had lived
with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and grow older and
older, yearning for a soul to speak to!

In his turn old Jolyon looked back at his son. He wanted to talk about
many things that he had been unable to talk about all these years. It
had been impossible to seriously confide in June his conviction that
property in the Soho quarter would go up in value; his uneasiness about
that tremendous silence of Pippin, the superintendent of the New Colliery
Company, of which he had so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady
fall in American Golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of
settlement, he could best avoid the payment of those death duties which
would follow his decease. Under the influence, however, of a cup of tea,
which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at last. A new
vista of life was thus opened up, a promised land of talk, where he could
find a harbour against the waves of anticipation and regret; where he
could soothe his soul with the opium of devising how to round off his
property and make eternal the only part of him that was to remain alive.

Young Jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. He kept his
eyes fixed on his father's face, putting a question now and then.

The clock struck one before old Jolyon had finished, and at the sound of
its striking his principles came back. He took out his watch with a look
of surprise:

"I must go to bed, Jo," he said.

Young Jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. The old
face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily averted.

"Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself."

A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his, heel, marched out at
the door. He could hardly see; hi