What would his father be advising now, in this sudden recrudescence of an old tragedy⁠—what would he say to this menace against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? “I must do my best for her,” thought Jolyon; “he left her to me in his will. But what is the best?”

And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd common sense of that old Forsyte, he sat down in the ancient chair and crossed his knees. But he felt a mere shadow sitting there; nor did any inspiration come, while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening panes of the french-window.