So with something like excitement Emily—­who at seventy would still have liked a little feast and fashion now and then—­ordered dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign words on cards, and arranged the flowers—­mimosa from the Riviera, and white Roman hyacinths not from Rome.  There would only be, of course, James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogen—­but she liked to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the glory of the past.  She so dressed herself that James remarked: 

“What are you putting on that thing for?  You’ll catch cold.”

But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of shining, unto fourscore years, and she only answered: 

“Let me put you on one of those dickies I got you, James; then you’ll only have to change your trousers, and put on your velvet coat, and there you’ll be.  Val likes you to look nice.”

“Dicky!” said James.  “You’re always wasting your money on something.”

But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, murmuring vaguely: 

“He’s an extravagant chap, I’m afraid.”

A little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual in his cheeks, he took his seat in the drawing-room to wait for the sound of the front-door bell.

“I’ve made it a proper dinner party,” Emily said comfortably; “I thought it would be good practice for Imogen—­she must get used to it now she’s coming out.”

James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she used to climb about his knee or pull Christmas crackers with him.

“She’ll be pretty,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t wonder.”

“She is pretty,” said Emily; “she ought to make a good match.”

“There you go,” murmured James; “she’d much better stay at home and look after her mother.”  A second Dartie carrying off his pretty granddaughter would finish him!  He had never quite forgiven Emily for having been as much taken in by Montague Dartie as he himself had been.

“Where’s Warmson?” he said suddenly.  “I should like a glass of Madeira to-night.”

“There’s champagne, James.”

James shook his head.  “No body,” he said; “I can’t get any good out of it.”

Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell.

“Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened, Warmson.”

“No, no!” said James, the tips of his ears quivering with vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone.  “Look here, Warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the middle shelf of the end bin on the left you’ll see seven bottles; take the one in the centre, and don’t shake it.  It’s the last of the Madeira I had from Mr. Jolyon when we came in here—­never been moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but I don’t know, I can’t tell.”

“Very good, sir,” responded the withdrawing Warmson.