He was very well versed in irony,
and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The episode of the
cat; the announcement of his own daughter's engagement. So he had no
more part or parcel in her than he had in the Puss! And the poetical
justice of this appealed to him.
"What is June like now?" he asked.
"She's a little thing," returned old Jolyon; "they say she's like me,
but that's their folly. She's more like your mother--the same eyes and
hair."
"Ah! and she is pretty?"
Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely;
especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration.
"Not bad looking--a regular Forsyte chin. It'll be lonely here when
she's gone, Jo."
The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had felt on
first seeing his father.
"What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose she's wrapped up in
him?"
"Do with myself?" repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his voice.
"It'll be miserable work living here alone. I don't know how it's
to end. I wish to goodness...." He checked himself, and added: "The
question is, what had I better do with this house?"
Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and dreary,
decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that he remembered
as a boy--sleeping dogs with their noses resting on bunches of carrots,
together with onions and grapes lying side by side in mild surprise.
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