“Doctors!” said James, coming down sharp on his words:  “I’ve had all the doctors in London for one or another of us.  There’s no satisfaction to be got out of them; they’ll tell you anything.  There’s Swithin, now.  What good have they done him?  There he is; he’s bigger than ever; he’s enormous; they can’t get his weight down.  Look at him!”

Swithin Forsyte, tall, square, and broad, with a chest like a pouter pigeon’s in its plumage of bright waistcoats, came strutting towards them.

“Er—­how are you?” he said in his dandified way, aspirating the ‘h’ strongly (this difficult letter was almost absolutely safe in his keeping)—­“how are you?”

Each brother wore an air of aggravation as he looked at the other two, knowing by experience that they would try to eclipse his ailments.

“We were just saying,” said James, “that you don’t get any thinner.”

Swithin protruded his pale round eyes with the effort of hearing.

“Thinner?  I’m in good case,” he said, leaning a little forward, “not one of your thread-papers like you!”

But, afraid of losing the expansion of his chest, he leaned back again into a state of immobility, for he prized nothing so highly as a distinguished appearance.

Aunt Ann turned her old eyes from one to the other.  Indulgent and severe was her look.  In turn the three brothers looked at Ann.  She was getting shaky.  Wonderful woman!  Eighty-six if a day; might live another ten years, and had never been strong.  Swithin and James, the twins, were only seventy-five, Nicholas a mere baby of seventy or so.  All were strong, and the inference was comforting.  Of all forms of property their respective healths naturally concerned them most.

“I’m very well in myself,” proceeded James, “but my nerves are out of order.  The least thing worries me to death.  I shall have to go to Bath.”

“Bath!” said Nicholas.  “I’ve tried Harrogate.  That’s no good.  What I want is sea air.  There’s nothing like Yarmouth.  Now, when I go there I sleep....”

“My liver’s very bad,” interrupted Swithin slowly.  “Dreadful pain here;” and he placed his hand on his right side.

“Want of exercise,” muttered James, his eyes on the china.  He quickly added:  “I get a pain there, too.”

Swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his old face.

“Exercise!” he said.  “I take plenty:  I never use the lift at the Club.”

“I didn’t know,” James hurried out.  “I know nothing about anybody; nobody tells me anything....”

Swithin fixed him with a stare: 

“What do you do for a pain there?”

James brightened.

“I take a compound....”

“How are you, uncle?”

June stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her little height to his great height, and her hand outheld.

The brightness faded from James’s visage.