In the days before June’s engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the spell she cast over men. She was not a flirt, not even a coquette⁠—words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word⁠—but she was dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a quality innate in some women⁠—a seductive power beyond their own control! He would but answer: “Humbug!” She was dangerous, and there was an end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it was; he did not want to hear any more about it⁠—he only wanted to save June’s position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she might once more become a comfort to himself.

And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As to what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was practically only the queer sentence: “I gather that he’s in the stream.” The stream! What stream? What was this newfangled way of talking?