At the end of July old Jolyon had taken his granddaughter to the mountains; and on that visit (the last they ever paid) June recovered to a great extent her health and spirits. In the hotels, filled with British Forsytes⁠—for old Jolyon could not bear a “set of Germans,” as he called all foreigners⁠—she was looked upon with respect⁠—the only granddaughter of that fine-looking, and evidently wealthy, old Mr. Forsyte. She did not mix freely with people⁠—to mix freely with people was not June’s habit⁠—but she formed some friendships, and notably one in the Rhone Valley, with a French girl who was dying of consumption.

Determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, in the institution of a campaign against Death, much of her own trouble.

Old Jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; for this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst lame ducks worried him. Would she never make a friendship or take an interest in something that would be of real benefit to her?