"Of course," said June; "only...."
Irene looked full at Jolyon--in all his many attempts afterwards to
analyze that glance he never could succeed.
"No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad."
He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought
flashed through him: 'Well, I could see her there.' But he said:
"Don't you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he
followed?"
"I don't know. I can but try."
June sprang up and paced the room. "It's all horrible," she said. "Why
should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year after
year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" But someone had come into
the room, and June came to a standstill. Jolyon went up to Irene:
"Do you want money?"
"No."
"And would you like me to let your flat?"
"Yes, Jolyon, please."
"When shall you be going?"
"To-morrow."
"You won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" This he said with
an anxiety strange to himself.
"No; I've got all I want here."
"You'll send me your address?"
She put out her hand to him. "I feel you're a rock."
"Built on sand," answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's a
pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And if you change
your mind...! Come along, June; say good-bye."
June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.
"Don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, and
bless you!"
With a memory of tears in Irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they
went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had interrupted the
interview and was turning over the papers on the table.
Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:
"Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!"
But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father's balance,
and could see things impartially even when his emotions were roused.
Irene was right; Soames' position was as bad or worse than her own. As
for the law--it catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally
low view. And, feeling that if he stayed in his daughter's company he
would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must
catch his train back to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner's
water-colours, with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.
But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to love!
If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he pitied her
profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so handicapped and
lonely! 'I hope to goodness she'll keep her head!' he thought; 'she
might easily grow desperate.' In fact, now that she had cut loose from
her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't imagine how she would go
on--so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his
exasperation was more than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange
things when they were driven into corners. 'I wonder what Soames will do
now!' he thought. 'A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I suppose they
would say it was her own fault.' Very preoccupied and sore at heart, he
got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at Oxford
took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without
being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having tea at
the Rainbow.