“I was keeping it for our golden wedding,” said James suddenly, “but I shan’t live three years at my age.”

“Nonsense, James,” said Emily, “don’t talk like that.”

“I ought to have got it up myself,” murmured James, “he’ll shake it as likely as not.”  And he sank into silent recollection of long moments among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good smell of wine-soaked corks, which had been appetiser to so many feasts.  In the wine from that cellar was written the history of the forty odd years since he had come to the Park Lane house with his young bride, and of the many generations of friends and acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins preserved the record of family festivity—­all the marriages, births, deaths of his kith and kin.  And when he was gone there it would be, and he didn’t know what would become of it.  It’d be drunk or spoiled, he shouldn’t wonder!

From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, followed very soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest.

They went down arm-in-arm—­James with Imogen, the debutante, because his pretty grandchild cheered him; Soames with Winifred; Emily with Val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened.  This was to be a proper full ‘blowout’ with ‘fizz’ and port!  And he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet undivulged.  After the first glass or two it became pleasant to have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of sensational patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to display—­for his pleasure in what he had done for his Queen and Country was so far entirely personal.  He was now a ‘blood,’ indissolubly connected with guns and horses; he had a right to swagger—­not, of course, that he was going to.  He should just announce it quietly, when there was a pause.  And, glancing down the menu, he determined on ’Bombe aux fraises’ as the proper moment; there would be a certain solemnity while they were eating that.  Once or twice before they reached that rosy summit of the dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather was never told anything!  Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and looking jolly fit!  Besides, he ought to be pleased at this set-off to the disgrace of the divorce.  The sight of his uncle opposite, too, was a sharp incentive.  He was so far from being a sportsman that it would be worth a lot to see his face.  Besides, better to tell his mother in this way than privately, which might upset them both!  He was sorry for her, but after all one couldn’t be expected to feel much for others when one had to part from Holly.

His grandfather’s voice travelled to him thinly.  “Val, try a little of the Madeira with your ice.  You won’t get that up at college.”

Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and thought:  ’Now for it!’ It was a rich moment.  He sipped, and a gentle glow spread in his veins, already heated.  With a rapid look round, he said, “I joined the Imperial Yeomanry to-day, Granny,” and emptied his glass as though drinking the health of his own act.