The best of everything!  No sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren.

With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James the very first year after little Publius’s arrival (an error); he had profited by his perspicacity.  Four little Darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance.

The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet.  This delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known to a few men of the world.

Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.

He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene’s face and figure.  As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her—­she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace.  He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well.  As for that architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head—­Winifred could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer.

It was all very amusing.

For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a certain poignancy, being no fool.  He told two or three stories verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not used to verging.  He proposed Irene’s health in a mock speech.  Nobody drank it, and Winifred said:  “Don’t be such a clown, Monty!”

At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace overlooking the river.

“I should like to see the common people making love,” she said, “it’s such fun!”

There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day’s heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets.

It was not long before Winifred’s better sense—­she was the only Forsyte present—­secured them an empty bench.  They sat down in a row.  A heavy tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and the haze darkened slowly over the river.

Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred.  There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel Irene’s arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would bring her closer still.  He thought:  ’That Buccaneer Johnny shan’t have it all to himself!  It’s a pretty tight fit, certainly!’

From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a mandoline, and voices singing the old round: