“Racing!” said Soames.  “It’s a pity the War didn’t knock that on the head.  He’s taking after his father, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t know anything about his father.”

“No,” said Soames, grimly.  “He took an interest in horses and broke his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs.  Good riddance for your aunt.”  He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because.  Montague Dartie could not attend it himself—­perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played baccarat.  Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his brother-in-law’s head.  The French procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it.

A sound from Fleur distracted his attention.  “Look!  The people who were in the Gallery with us.”

“What people?” muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.

“I think that woman’s beautiful.”

“Come into this pastry-cook’s,” said Soames abruptly, and tightening his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner’s.  It was—­for him—­a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously:  “What will you have?”

“Oh!  I don’t want anything.  I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch.”

“We must have something now we’re here,” muttered Soames, keeping hold of her arm.

“Two teas,” he said; “and two of those nougat things.”

But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up.  Those three—­those three were coming in!  He heard Irene say something to her boy, and his answer: 

“Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right.  My stunt.”  And the three sat down.

At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved—­his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor—­Soames was not so much afraid of them as of his cousin June.  She might make a scene—­she might introduce those two children—­she was capable of anything.  He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate.  Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur.  She was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy.  The Forsyte in him said:  “Think, feel, and you’re done for!” And he wiggled his finger desperately.  Plate!  Did Jolyon wear a plate?  Did that woman wear a plate?  Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing!  That was something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him.  And she knew it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife.  An acid humour stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair’s breadth from pleasure.  If only June did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears!  The boy was talking.

“Of course, Auntie June”—­so he called his half-sister “Auntie,” did he?—­well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!—­“it’s jolly good of you to encourage them.  Only—­hang it all!” Soames stole a glance.  Irene’s startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy.  She—­she had these devotions—­for Bosinney—­for that boy’s father—­for this boy!  He touched Fleur’s arm, and said: