“Hallo, Soames!  Have a muffin?”

“No, thanks,” murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: 

“How’s your mother?”

“Thanks,” said George; “so-so.  Haven’t seen you for ages.  You never go racing.  How’s the City?”

Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: 

“I wanted to ask you about Dartie.  I hear he’s....”

“Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola.  Good for Winifred and the little Darties.  He’s a treat.”

Soames nodded.  Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie made them kin.

“Uncle James’ll sleep in his bed now,” resumed George; “I suppose he’s had a lot off you, too.”

Soames smiled.

“Ah!  You saw him further,” said George amicably.  “He’s a real rouser.  Young Val will want a bit of looking after.  I was always sorry for Winifred.  She’s a plucky woman.”

Again Soames nodded.  “I must be getting back to her,” he said; “she just wanted to know for certain.  We may have to take steps.  I suppose there’s no mistake?”

“It’s quite O.K.,” said George—­it was he who invented so many of those quaint sayings which have been assigned to other sources.  “He was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right this morning.  His ship’s the Tuscarora;” and, fishing out a card, he read mockingly: 

“‘Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.’  I should hurry up with the steps, if I were you.  He fairly fed me up last night.”

“Yes,” said Soames; “but it’s not always easy.”  Then, conscious from George’s eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own affair, he got up, and held out his hand.  George rose too.

“Remember me to Winifred....  You’ll enter her for the Divorce Stakes straight off if you ask me.”

Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway.  George had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big and lonely in those black clothes.  Soames had never known him so subdued.  ’I suppose he feels it in a way,’ he thought.  ’They must have about fifty thousand each, all told.  They ought to keep the estate together.  If there’s a war, house property will go down.  Uncle Roger was a good judge, though.’  And the face of Annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her blue eyes with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French figure.  ‘Take steps!’ he thought.  Re-entering Winifred’s house he encountered Val, and they went in together.  An idea had occurred to Soames.  His cousin Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, the first step would be to go down and see him at Robin Hill.  Robin Hill!  The odd—­the very odd feeling those words brought back!  Robin Hill—­the house Bosinney had built for him and Irene—­the house they had never lived in—­the fatal house!  And Jolyon lived there now!  H’m!  And suddenly he thought:  ’They say he’s got a boy at Oxford!  Why not take young Val down and introduce them!  It’s an excuse!  Less bald—­very much less bald!’ So, as they went upstairs, he said to Val: