om, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered.

"What I'm afraid of," said Val to his plate, "is of being hard up, you
know."

By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of
insecurity for his grandchildren.

"Well," said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, "you'll have
a good allowance; but you must keep within it."

"Of course," murmured Val; "if it is good. How much will it be,
Grandfather?"

"Three hundred and fifty; it's too much. I had next to nothing at your
age."

Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. "I don't
know what your young cousin has," said James; "he's up there. His
father's a rich man."

"Aren't you?" asked Val hardily.

"I?" replied James, flustered. "I've got so many expenses. Your
father...." and he was silent.

"Cousin Jolyon's got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with
Uncle Soames--ripping stables."

"Ah!" murmured James profoundly. "That house--I knew how it would be!"
And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. His son's
tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family, had
still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and
misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill, because Robin Hill
meant Holly, turned to Emily and said:

"Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?" And, receiving her nod,
went on: "I wish you'd tell me about him, Granny. What became of Aunt
Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked-up about something
to-night."

Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James'
ear.

"What's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips.
"Who's been seeing her? I knew we hadn't heard the last of that."

"Now, James," said Emily, "eat your dinner. Nobody's been seeing
anybody."

James put down his fork.

"There you go," he said. "I might die before you'd tell me of it. Is
Soames getting a divorce?"

"Nonsense," said Emily with incomparable aplomb; "Soames is much too
sensible."

James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers
together on the skin and bone of it.

"She--she was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark the
conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, when the
saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and
Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather's
kiss--like no other kiss in the