Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was speaking.  The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, which had at that time already commenced among the saner members of the community.

The words ‘it is not business’ had moved even the Board; privately everyone felt that indeed it was not.  But they knew also the chairman’s domineering temper and tenacity.  He, too, at heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to his own proposition.  Would he go back upon it?  It was thought to be unlikely.

All waited with interest.  Old Jolyon held up his hand; dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace.

He addressed the strong, silent shareholder.

“Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put that amendment, sir?”

“I do.”

Old Jolyon put the amendment.

“Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round.

And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will that was in that old man.  No one stirred.  Looking straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old Jolyon said: 

“I now move, ’That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received and adopted.’  You second that?  Those in favour signify the same in the usual way.  Contrary—­no.  Carried.  The next business, gentlemen....”

Soames smiled.  Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.

Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.

Irene’s visit to the house—­but there was nothing in that, except that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him anything.  She was more silent, more touchy, every day.  He wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away from London.  Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough.  That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again!

The meeting was breaking up now.  Underneath the photograph of the lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms.  Little Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole.  The two hated each other like poison.  There was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head.  Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.

Soames awaited his opportunity.  The last shareholder was vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his hat.

“Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?”