Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face.
If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.
“She and June were bosom friends!” he muttered.
“Poor little June!” said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his daughter still as a babe of three.
Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, “it’s some old woman’s tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I’m tired to death!”
They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses’ coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight, and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels:
“I and my horses and my men you know,
Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot.
But we were worth it every penny. Look
At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs!
Ease with security—ah! that’s the ticket!”
And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating Forsyte.
Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle.