He heard the maid's
voice say:
"Did you ring, sir?"
"Yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front
of his eyes. "I'm not well, I want some sal volatile."
"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded frightened.
Old Jolyon made an effort.
"Don't go. Take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a
lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well--the heat. He is very sorry;
if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner."
When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in grey--she
may be in anything. Sal volatile!' He did not go off again, yet was not
conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling
salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. He heard her
say anxiously: "Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of
the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of
smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed.
"Ha!" he said, "it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and
dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right in a
minute."
He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided
between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right.
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