o his tobacconist a hero! Even that was some distinction to
inherit!

"I pay cash," he said; "how much?"

"To his son, sir, and cash--ten and six. I shall never forget Mr.
Montague Dartie. I've known him stand talkin' to me half an hour. We
don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry. The War was
bad for manners, sir--it was bad for manners. You were in it, I see."

"No," said Val, tapping his knee, "I got this in the war before. Saved my
life, I expect. Do you want any cigarettes, Jon?"

Rather ashamed, Jon murmured, "I don't smoke, you know," and saw the
tobacconist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to say "Good God!" or
"Now's your chance, sir!"

"That's right," said Val; "keep off it while you can. You'll want it
when you take a knock. This is really the same tobacco, then?"

"Identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. Wonderful staying
power--the British Empire, I always say."

"Send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it monthly.
Come on, Jon."

Jon entered the Iseeum with curiosity. Except to lunch now and then at
the Hotch-Potch with his father, he had never been in a London Club. The
Iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could not, so long
as George Forsyte sat on its Committee, where his culinary acumen was
almost the controlling force. The Club had made a stand against the
newly rich, and it had taken all George Forsyte's prestige, and praise of
him as a "good sportsman," to bring in Prosper Profond.

The two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law entered the
dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger, sat down at their
table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, Jon with solemn lips
and an attractive shyness in his glance. There was an air of privilege
around that corner table, as though past masters were eating there. Jon
was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. The waiter, lean in the chaps,
pervaded with such free-masonical deference. He seemed to hang on George
Forsyte's lips, to watch the gloat in his eye with a kind of sympathy, to
follow the movements of the heavy club-marked silver fondly. His
liveried arm and confidential voice alarmed Jon, they came so secretly
over his shoulder.

Except for George's "Your grandfather tipped me once; he was a deuced
good judge of a cigar!" neither he nor the other past master took any
notice of him, and he was grateful for this. The talk was all about