“Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the wholehearted way the Greeks gave themselves to art.”

Balance! The chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for symmetry⁠—clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer eyes of his, and high cheekbones⁠—Symmetry?

“You’re of the Golden Age, too, Uncle Jolyon.”

Old Jolyon looked round at her. Was she chaffing him? No, her eyes were soft as velvet. Was she flattering him? But if so, why? There was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him.

“Phil thought so. He used to say: ‘But I can never tell him that I admire him.’ ”

Ah! There it was again. Her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! And he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, half grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between herself and him.