She was eighteen now, and Mademoiselle Beauce was gone⁠—the excellent lady had removed, after eleven years haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the “well-brrred little Tayleurs,” to another family whose bosom would now be agitated by her reminiscences of the “well-brrred little Forsytes.” She had taught Holly to speak French like herself.

Portraiture was not Jolyon’s forte, but he had already drawn his younger daughter three times, and was drawing her a fourth, on the afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to him which caused his eyebrows to go up: