known how to get that startling little ego into each painted flower, and
bird, and beast--the ego, yet the sense of species, the universality of
life as well. They were the fellows! 'I've made nothing that will live!'
thought Jolyon; 'I've been an amateur--a mere lover, not a creator.
Still, I shall leave Jon behind me when I go.' What luck that the boy
had not been caught by that ghastly war! He might so easily have been
killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in the Transvaal. Jon would
do something some day--if the Age didn't spoil him--an imaginative chap!
His whim to take up farming was but a bit of sentiment, and about as
likely to last. And just then he saw them coming up the field: Irene and
the boy; walking from the station, with their arms linked. And getting
up, he strolled down through the new rose garden to meet them....

Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. She sat
there without speaking till he said:

"What is it, my love?"

"We had an encounter to-day."

"With whom?"

"Soames."

Soames! He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years;
conscious that it was bad for him. And, now, his heart moved in a
disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest.

Irene went on quietly: