One thing was certain⁠—Soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and journeying up and down⁠—a fitting fate, the man of property! For when he once took a dislike to anyone⁠—as he had to his nephew⁠—old Jolyon never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of Irene’s disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment⁠—like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, “Tragic death of an Architect,” in the street. Her face had struck him very much the other night⁠—more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. A young woman still⁠—twenty-eight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she had another lover by now. But at this subversive thought⁠—for married women should never love: once, even, had been too much⁠—his instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar’s head. The sagacious animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon’s face. “Walk?” he seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: “Come on, old chap!”