“You see,” he heard Soames say, “we can’t have it all begin over again.  There’s a limit; we must strike while the iron’s hot.”

Val freed his hand.

“But—­you’re—­never going to bring out that about the pearls!  I couldn’t stand that—­I simply couldn’t!”

Winifred cried out: 

“No, no, Val—­oh no!  That’s only to show you how impossible your father is!” And his uncle nodded.  Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a cigarette.  His father had bought him that thin curved case.  Oh! it was unbearable—­just as he was going up to Oxford!

“Can’t mother be protected without?” he said.  “I could look after her.  It could always be done later if it was really necessary.”

A smile played for a moment round Soames’ lips, and became bitter.

“You don’t know what you’re talking of; nothing’s so fatal as delay in such matters.”

“Why?”

“I tell you, boy, nothing’s so fatal.  I know from experience.”

His voice had the ring of exasperation.  Val regarded him round-eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling.  Oh!  Yes—­he remembered now—­there had been an Aunt Irene, and something had happened—­something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her.

“I don’t want to speak ill of your father,” Soames went on doggedly, “but I know him well enough to be sure that he’ll be back on your mother’s hands before a year’s over.  You can imagine what that will mean to her and to all of you after this.  The only thing is to cut the knot for good.”

In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at his mother’s face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most.

“All right, mother,” he said; “we’ll back you up.  Only I’d like to know when it’ll be.  It’s my first term, you know.  I don’t want to be up there when it comes off.”

“Oh! my dear boy,” murmured Winifred, “it is a bore for you.”  So, by habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was the most poignant regret.  “When will it be, Soames?”

“Can’t tell—­not for months.  We must get restitution first.”

‘What the deuce is that?’ thought Val.  ’What silly brutes lawyers are!  Not for months!  I know one thing:  I’m not going to dine in!’ And he said: 

“Awfully sorry, mother, I’ve got to go out to dinner now.”

Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of feeling.