"You must come up and have some dinner with me. I'll send you home in the carriage." He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories. But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. Perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: "Thank you, Uncle Jolyon. I should like to." He rubbed his hands, and said: "Capital! Let's go up, then!" And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, they ascended through the field. The sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness--the special look of life unshared with others. "I'll take her in by the terrace," he thought: "I won't make a common visitor of her." "What do you do all day?" he said. "Teach music; I have another interest, too." "Work!" said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat. "Nothing like it, is there? I don't do any now. I'm getting on. What interest is that?" "Trying to help women who've come to grief." Old Jolyon did not quite understand. "To grief?" he repeated; then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! What a weird and terrifying interest! And, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked: "Why? What do you do for them?" "Not much. I've no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and food sometimes." Involuntarily old Jolyon's hand sought his purse. He said hastily: "How d'you get hold of them?" "I go to a hospital." "A hospital! Phew!" "What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty." Old Jolyon straightened the doll. "Beauty!" he ejaculated: "Ha! Yes! A sad business!" and he moved towards the house. Through a French window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room where he was wont to study The Times and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material for her paint brush. "Dinner's in half an hour. You'd like to wash your hands! I'll take you to June's room." He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps--he did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he wished to leave it so. But what changes! And in the hall he said: "My boy Jo's a painter, you know. He's got a lot of taste. It isn't mine, of course, but I've let him have his way."