“You take care,” said Nicholas, “or he’ll turn up again.  Winifred had better have the tooth out, I should say.  No use preserving what’s gone bad.”

Soames looked at him sideways.  His nerves, exacerbated by the interview he had just come through, disposed him to see a personal allusion in those words.

“I’m advising her,” he said shortly.

“Well,” said Nicholas, “the brougham’s waiting; I must get home.  I’m very poorly.  Remember me to your father.”

And having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down the steps at his youthful gait and was wrapped into his fur coat by the junior porter.

‘I’ve never known Uncle Nicholas other than “very poorly,"’ mused Soames, ’or seen him look other than everlasting.  What a family!  Judging by him, I’ve got thirty-eight years of health before me.  Well, I’m not going to waste them.’  And going over to a mirror he stood looking at his face.  Except for a line or two, and three or four grey hairs in his little dark moustache, had he aged any more than Irene?  The prime of life—­he and she in the very prime of life!  And a fantastic thought shot into his mind.  Absurd!  Idiotic!  But again it came.  And genuinely alarmed by the recurrence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which presages a feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine.  Eleven stone!  He had not varied two pounds in twenty years.  What age was she?  Nearly thirty-seven—­not too old to have a child—­not at all!  Thirty-seven on the ninth of next month.  He remembered her birthday well—­he had always observed it religiously, even that last birthday so soon before she left him, when he was almost certain she was faithless.  Four birthdays in his house.  He had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a semblance of gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth.  Except, indeed, that last birthday—­which had tempted him to be too religious!  And he shied away in thought.  Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.  And then he thought suddenly:  ’I could send her a present for her birthday.  After all, we’re Christians!  Couldn’t!—­couldn’t we join up again!’ And he uttered a deep sigh sitting there.  Annette!  Ah! but between him and Annette was the need for that wretched divorce suit!  And how?

“A man can always work these things, if he’ll take it on himself,” Jolyon had said.

But why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole career as a pillar of the law at stake?  It was not fair!  It was quixotic!  Twelve years’ separation in which he had taken no steps to free himself put out of court the possibility of using her conduct with Bosinney as a ground for divorcing her.  By doing nothing to secure relief he had acquiesced, even if the evidence could now be gathered, which was more than doubtful.  Besides, his own pride would never let him use that old incident, he had suffered from it too much.  No!  Nothing but fresh misconduct on her part—­but she had denied it; and—­almost—­he had believed her.  Hung up!  Utterly hung up!