He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a little angry. He had been driven into this! "Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?" "Oh, yes sir!--what name shall I say, if you please, sir?" Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad! And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the little maid placed him in a chair. "They're all in the garden, sir; if you'll kindly take a seat, I'll tell them." Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have expressed it, pokey; there was a certain--he could not tell exactly what--air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls, distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack. These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than he could have said, to think of a Forsyte--his own son living in such a place. The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the garden? Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending the steps he noticed that they wanted painting. Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar, were all out there under a pear-tree. This walk towards them was the most courageous act of old Jolyon's life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the enemy. In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made, of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. In the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the neglect of everything else, they typified the essential individualism, born in the Briton from the natural isolation of his country's life. The dog Balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this friendly and cynical mongrel--offspring of a liaison between a Russian poodle and a fox-terrier--had a nose for the unusual. The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man.