He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life to be better served than most men. "Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?" "Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?" Old Jolyon was taken aback. "His father," he said. And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace. Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face--a narrower replica of his father's, with the same large drooping moustache--decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said: "How are you, my boy?" The son answered: "How are you, Dad?" Old Jolyon's hand trembled in its thin lavender glove. "If you're going my way," he said, "I can give you a lift." And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab. To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. 'More of a man altogether,' was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that son's face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years. To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock--he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed. "You look well, Dad." "Middling," old Jolyon answered. He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position. "Jo," he said, "I should like to hear what sort of water you're in. I suppose you're in debt?" He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess. Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice: "No! I'm not in debt!" Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head. "June's not here," said his father hastily: "went of to-day on a visit. I suppose you know that she's engaged to be married?" "Already?" murmured young Jolyon'. Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for a shilling.