CHAPTER VI--NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME.
Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at Robin Hill looked no day older than when Bosinney sprawled under it and said to Soames: "Forsyte, I've found the very place for your house." Since then Swithin had dreamed, and old Jolyon died, beneath its branches.

And now, close to the swing, no-longer-young Jolyon often painted there.

Of all spots in the world it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had loved his father.
Contemplating its great girth--crinkled and a little mossed, but not yet hollow--he would speculate on the passage of time.

That tree had seen, perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he shouldn't wonder, from the days of Elizabeth at least.

His own fifty years were as nothing to its wood.