Soames turned to the window. A few early fallen oak-leaves strewed the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind. Jolyon saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the lawn towards the stables. “I’m not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,” he thought. “I must act for her. The Dad would have wished that.” And for a swift moment he seemed to see his father’s figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soames, sitting with knees crossed, the Times in his hand. It vanished.

“My father was fond of her,” he said quietly.

“Why he should have been I don’t know,” Soames answered without looking round. “She brought trouble to your daughter June; she brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would have given her even⁠—forgiveness⁠—but she chose to leave me.”

In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. What was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry for him?