Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often wondered
whence she got herself--her red-gold hair, now greyed into a special
colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own rather
folded and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, when he
and most of the Forsytes were tall. And he would dwell on the origin of
species, and debate whether she might be Danish or Celtic. Celtic, he
thought, from her pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs. It
was not too much to say that he preferred her to the Age with which she
was surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was. She took,
however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had some of those
natural symptoms. Her dentist at once found "Staphylococcus aureus
present in pure culture" (which might cause boils, of course), and
wanted to take out all the teeth he had and supply him with two complete
sets of unnatural symptoms. Jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in
the studio that evening he developed his objections. He had never
had any boils, and his own teeth would last his time. Of course--June
admitted--they would last his time if he didn't have them out! But if
he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would
be longer. His recalcitrance--she said--was a symptom of his whole
attitude; he was taking it lying down. He ought to be fighting. When was
he going to see the man who had cured Paul Post? Jolyon was very
sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him. June chafed.
Pondridge--she said--the healer, was such a fine man, and he had such
difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories recognised.
It was just such indifference and prejudice as her father manifested
which was keeping him back. It would be so splendid for both of them!
"I perceive," said Jolyon, "that you are trying to kill two birds with
one stone."
"To cure, you mean!" cried June.
"My dear, it's the same thing."
June protested. It was unfair to say that without a trial.
Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after.
"Dad!" cried June, "you're hopeless."
"That," said Jolyon, "is a fact, but I wish to remain hopeless as long
as possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. They are quiet at
present."
"That's not giving science a chance," cried June. "You've no idea how
devoted Pondridge is. He puts his science before everything."
"Just," replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he was
reduced, "as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art's sake--Science
for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiastic egomaniac gentry.
They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough of a Forsyte to give them
the go-by, June."