"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.
"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid,
nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and
individual liberty--a different thing from individualism, Jolly. You
are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new
century."
As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said:
"It's fascinating, Dad."
None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave.
The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for lack
of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-room, in
which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, when the only
guest arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand. And
wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? It would look ripping in her
hair. He removed a gardenia from his coat.
"Oh! No, thank you--I couldn't!" But she took it and pinned it at her
neck, having suddenly remembered that word 'showy'! Val's buttonhole
would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like him. Did she
realise that Val was at his best and quietest in her presence, and was
that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction for her?
"I never said anything about our ride, Val."
"Rather not! It's just between us."
By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was
giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too--the wish
to make him happy.
"Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely."
Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; the
lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps. "Only,"
he added, "of course I wish I was in town, and could come down and see
you."
Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped.
"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that
we're going mad-rabbiting together?"
Holly smiled.
"Oh! That was only make-believe. One can't do that sort of thing after
one's grown up, you know."
"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac.--it begins in June,
you know, and goes on for ever--we'll watch our chance."
But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly shook
her head. "It won't come off," she murmured.
"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not your father
or your brother."
At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into Val's
patent leather and Holly's white satin toes, where it itched and tingled
during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness.