They never did a wild thing⁠—unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe was once swindled at thimblerig, and was called ‘Four-in-Hand Forsyte’ because he drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country. They were pedestrian, but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte⁠—a poor holder of the name⁠—”

“No, Dad,” said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.

“Yes,” repeated Jolyon, “a poor specimen, representing, I’m afraid, nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and individual liberty⁠—a different thing from individualism, Jolly. You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new century.”

As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said: “It’s fascinating, Dad.”

None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave.