The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy Read Free Book Online Page A

that desirable manner which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a companion, even after Cambridge—a little far off, perhaps, owing to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon’s feeling towards our public schools and ’Varsities never wavered, and he retained touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had not himself been privileged to partake. . . . Now that June had gone and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his family, his principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. A poor thing—a wretched poor thing! And the Florian a perfect stick!
    It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays!
    In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to be his own. His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner, instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to drive up St. James’s Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning, however, he found himself opposite the Hotch Potch, and the yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go in and ask if Jo still belonged there.
    He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life to be better served than most men.
    â€œMr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?”
    â€œYes, sir; in the club now, sir. What name?”
    Old Jolyon was taken aback.
    â€œHis father,” he said.
    And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace.
    Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face—a narrower replica of his father’s, with the same large drooping moustache—decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said:
    â€œHow are you, my boy?”
    The son answered:
    â€œHow are you, Dad?”
    Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.
    â€œIf you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.”
    And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab.
    To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. “More of a man altogether,” was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that son’s face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years.
    To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock—he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed.
    â€œYou look well, Dad.”
    â€œMiddling,” old Jolyon answered.
    He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position.
    â€œJo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re in. I suppose you’re in debt?”
    He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.
    Young Jolyon answered in his