It
was not until they were leaving the gardens--Jolly and Holly in a state
of blissful delirium--that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking
to his son on the matter next his heart. "I don't know what to make of
it," he said; "if she's to go on as she's going on now, I can't tell
what's to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won't. She's not
a bit like me. She's your mother all over. Obstinate as a mule! If she
doesn't want to do a thing, she won't, and there's an end of it!"
Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father's chin. 'A pair
of you,' he thought, but he said nothing.
"And then," went on old Jolyon, "there's this Bosinney. I should like to
punch the fellow's head, but I can't, I suppose, though--I don't see why
you shouldn't," he added doubtfully.
"What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if they
don't hit it off!"
Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to discuss
a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt
distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.
"Well, I don't know what you think," he said; "I dare say your
sympathy's with him--shouldn't be surprised; but I think he's behaving
precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so.
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