ogether 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 the
breeding, points, and prices of horses, and he listened to it vaguely
at first, wondering how it was possible to retain so much knowledge in a
head. He could not take his eyes off the dark past master--what he said
was so deliberate and discouraging--such heavy, queer, smiled-out words.
Jon was thinking of butterflies, when he heard him say:

"I want to see Mr. Soames Forsyde take an interest in 'orses."

"Old Soames! He's too dry a file!"

With all his might Jon tried not to grow red, while the dark past master
went on.

"His daughter's an attractive small girl. Mr. Soames Forsyde is a bit
old-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day." George
Forsyte grinned.

"Don't you worry; he's not so miserable as he looks. He'll never show
he's enjoying anything--they might try and take it from him. Old Soames!
Once bit, twice shy!"

"Well, Jon," said Val, hastily, "if you've finished, we'll go and have
coffee."

"Who were those?" Jon asked, on the stairs. "I didn't quite---"

"Old George Forsyte is a first cousin of your father's and of my Uncle
Soames. He's always been here. The other chap, Profond, is a queer fish.
I think he's hanging round Soames' wife, if you ask me!"

Jon looked at him, startled. "But that's awful," he said: "I mean--for
Fleur."

"Don't suppose Fleur cares very much; she's very up-to-date."

"Her mother!"

"You're very green, Jon."

Jon grew red. "Mothers," he stammered angrily, "are different."

"You're right," said Val suddenly; "but things aren't what they were
whe