James’ voice sounded from the other end.

“What’s that?  What are you talking about?”

“About Val’s college,” returned Emily.  “Young Pariser was there, James; you remember—­he nearly broke the Bank at Monte Carlo afterwards.”

James muttered that he did not know—­Val must look after himself up there, or he’d get into bad ways.  And he looked at his grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered.

“What I’m afraid of,” said Val to his plate, “is of being hard up, you know.”

By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren.

“Well,” said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, “you’ll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it.”

“Of course,” murmured Val; “if it is good.  How much will it be, Grandfather?”

“Three hundred and fifty; it’s too much.  I had next to nothing at your age.”

Val sighed.  He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three.  “I don’t know what your young cousin has,” said James; “he’s up there.  His father’s a rich man.”

“Aren’t you?” asked Val hardily.

“I?” replied James, flustered.  “I’ve got so many expenses.  Your father....” and he was silent.

“Cousin Jolyon’s got an awfully jolly place.  I went down there with Uncle Soames—­ripping stables.”

“Ah!” murmured James profoundly.  “That house—­I knew how it would be!” And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones.  His son’s tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family, had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and misgivings.  Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill, because Robin Hill meant Holly, turned to Emily and said: 

“Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?” And, receiving her nod, went on:  “I wish you’d tell me about him, Granny.  What became of Aunt Irene?  Is she still going?  He seems awfully worked-up about something to-night.”

Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James’ ear.

“What’s that?” he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips.  “Who’s been seeing her?  I knew we hadn’t heard the last of that.”

“Now, James,” said Emily, “eat your dinner.  Nobody’s been seeing anybody.”

James put down his fork.

“There you go,” he said.  “I might die before you’d tell me of it.  Is Soames getting a divorce?”

“Nonsense,” said Emily with incomparable aplomb; “Soames is much too sensible.”

James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers together on the skin and bone of it.

“She—­she was always....” he said, and with that enigmatic remark the conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned.  But later, when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather’s kiss—­like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weakness—­he returned to the charge in the hall.