He had not been eating much lately--he had better get that
little whippersnapper who attended Holly to give him a tonic. But she
had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said:
"Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?" and added with
a twinkle: "No prancing up and down there," as if she had been in the
secret of his thoughts.
Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled
towards the water.
"You've gone back to your maiden name, I see," he said: "I'm not sorry."
She slipped her hand under his arm: "Has June forgiven me, Uncle
Jolyon?"
He answered gently: "Yes--yes; of course, why not?"
"And have you?"
"I? I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay." And perhaps
he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the beautiful.
She drew a deep breath. "I never regretted--I couldn't. Did you ever
love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?"
At that strange question old Jolyon stared before him. Had he? He did
not seem to remember that he ever had. But he did not like to say this
to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose life was
suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love.
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