“Don’t go. Take this message to my niece⁠—a lady waiting in the hall⁠—a lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well⁠—the heat. He is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner.”

When she was gone, he thought feebly: “Why did I say a lady in grey⁠—she may be in anything. Sal volatile!” He did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. He heard her say anxiously: “Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?” was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed.

“Ha!” he said, “it’s nothing. How did you get here? Go down and dine⁠—the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right in a minute.”

He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right.