there was a pause. And, glancing down the menu, he determined on 'Bombe
aux fraises' as the proper moment; there would be a certain solemnity
while they were eating that. Once or twice before they reached that rosy
summit of the dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather
was never told anything! Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and
looking jolly fit! Besides, he ought to be pleased at this set-off to the
disgrace of the divorce. The sight of his uncle opposite, too, was a
sharp incentive. He was so far from being a sportsman that it would be
worth a lot to see his face. Besides, better to tell his mother in this
way than privately, which might upset them both! He was sorry for her,
but after all one couldn't be expected to feel much for others when one
had to part from Holly.

His grandfather's voice travelled to him thinly. "Val, try a little of
the Madeira with your ice. You won't get that up at college."

Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of the
old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and thought: 'Now for
it!' It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a gentle glow spread in his
veins, already heated. With a rapid look round, he said, "I joined the
Imperial Yeomanry to-day, Granny," and emptied his glass as though
drinking the health of his own act.

"What!" It was his mother's desolate little word.

"Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together."

"You didn't sign?" from Uncle Soames.

"Rather! We go into camp on Monday."

"I say!" cried Imogen.

All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind his
ear.

"What's that?" he said. "What's he saying? I can't hear."

Emily reached forward to pat Val's hand.

"It's only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it's very nice for
him. He'll look his best in uniform."

"Joined the--rubbish!" came from James, tremulously loud. "You can't see
two yards before your nose. He--he'll have to go out there. Why! he'll
be fighting before he knows where he is."

Val saw Imogen's eyes admiring him, and his mother still and fashionable
with her handkerchief before her lips.

Suddenly his uncle spoke.

"You're under age."

"I thought of that," smiled Val; "I gave my age as twenty-one."

He heard his grandmother's admiring, "Well, Val, that was plucky of you;"
was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his champagne glass; and
of his grandfather's voice moaning: