"My father was fond of her," he said quietly.
"Why he should have been I don't know," Soames answered without looking
round. "She brought trouble to your daughter June; she brought
trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would have given her
even--forgiveness--but she chose to leave me."
In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. What
was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry for him?
"I can go and see her, if you like," he said. "I suppose she might be
glad of a divorce, but I know nothing."
Soames nodded.
"Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address; but I've no wish to see
her." His tongue was busy with his lips, as if they were very dry.
"You'll have some tea?" said Jolyon, stifling the words: 'And see the
house.' And he led the way into the hall. When he had rung the bell and
ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing to the wall. He
could not bear, somehow, that his work should be seen by Soames, who was
standing there in the middle of the great room which had been designed
expressly to afford wall space for his own pictures. In his cousin's
face, with its unseizable family likeness to himself, and its chinny,
narrow, concentrated look, Jolyon saw that which moved him to the
thought: 'That chap could never forget anything--nor ever give himself
away. He's pathetic!'