VISIT TO IRENE
Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington.She had received his telegram while at breakfast.Her abode--a studio and two bedrooms in a St.John's Wood garden--had been selected by her for the complete independence which it guaranteed.Unwatched by Mrs.Grundy,unhindered by permanent domestics,she could receive lame ducks at any hour of day or night,and not seldom had a duck without studio of its own made use of June's.She enjoyed her freedom,and possessed herself with a sort of virginal passion;the warmth which she would have lavished on Bosinney,and of which--given her Forsyte tenacity--he must surely have tired,she now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding 'geniuses'of the artistic world.She lived,in fact,to turn ducks into the swans she believed they were.The very fervour of her protection warped her judgments.But she was loyal and liberal;her small eager hand was ever against the oppressions of academic and commercial opinion,and though her income was considerable,her bank balance was often a minus quantity.
She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit to Eric Cobbley.A miserable Gallery had refused to let that straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all.Its impudent manager,after visiting his studio,had expressed the opinion that it would only be a 'one-horse show from the selling point of view.'This crowning example of commercial cowardice towards her favourite lame duck--and he so hard up,with a wife and two children,that he had caused her account to be overdrawn--was still making the blood glow in her small,resolute face,and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever.She gave her father a hug,and got into a cab with him,having as many fish to fry with him as he with her.It became at once a question which would fry them first.