had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something once--something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day he was run over--something which explained the young fellow's distress--an act of Soames towards his wife--a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old Jolyon's mind--'wild and lost' he had called her. And next day June had gone there--bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business altogether! 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!"