This was but the third time he had seen his cousin Soames' wife--if indeed she was still his wife, of which he was not quite sure.

He remembered having seen her sitting in the Botanical Gardens waiting for Bosinney--a passive, fascinating figure, reminding him of Titian's 'Heavenly Love,' and again, when, charged by his father, he had gone to Montpellier Square on the afternoon when Bosinney's death was known.

He still recalled vividly her sudden appearance in the drawing-room doorway on that occasion--her beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness of hope to stony despair; remembered the compassion he had felt, Soames' snarling smile, his words, "We are not at home!" and the slam of the front door.
This third time he saw a face and form more beautiful--freed from that warp of wild hope and despair.

Looking at her, he thought: 'Yes, you are just what the Dad would have admired!' And the strange story of his father's Indian summer became slowly clear to him.

She spoke of old Jolyon with reverence and tears in her eyes.