"Yet you've done it yourself!"

Young Jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile.

"You forget," he said with a queer pride, "I can hold on, too--I'm
a Forsyte myself. We're all in the path of great forces. The man who
leaves the shelter of the wall--well--you know what I mean. I don't,"
he ended very low, as though uttering a threat, "recommend every man
to-go-my-way. It depends."

The colour rushed into Bosinney's face, but soon receded, leaving it
sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, that left his lips fixed
in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young Jolyon.

"Thanks," he said. "It's deuced kind of you. But you're not the only
chaps that can hold on." He rose.

Young Jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his head
on his hand, sighed.

In the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle of
newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a long time
without moving, living over again those days when he, too, had sat long
hours watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to pass--long hours
full of the torments of uncertainty, and of a fierce, sweet aching; and
the slow, delicious agony of that season came back to him with its
old poignancy. The sight of Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his
restless eyes always wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity,
with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy.