Afternoon at Timothy’s

If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: “I won’t believe a word of it!” he would more truthfully have expressed his sentiments.

The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural between brothers, the roots of which⁠—little nursery rivalries⁠—sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season the bitterest fruits.