“What!” It was his mother’s desolate little word.

“Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together.”

“You didn’t sign?” from Uncle Soames.

“Rather!  We go into camp on Monday.”

“I say!” cried Imogen.

All looked at James.  He was leaning forward with his hand behind his ear.

“What’s that?” he said.  “What’s he saying?  I can’t hear.”

Emily reached forward to pat Val’s hand.

“It’s only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it’s very nice for him.  He’ll look his best in uniform.”

“Joined the—­rubbish!” came from James, tremulously loud.  “You can’t see two yards before your nose.  He—­he’ll have to go out there.  Why! he’ll be fighting before he knows where he is.”

Val saw Imogen’s eyes admiring him, and his mother still and fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips.

Suddenly his uncle spoke.

“You’re under age.”

“I thought of that,” smiled Val; “I gave my age as twenty-one.”

He heard his grandmother’s admiring, “Well, Val, that was plucky of you;” was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his champagne glass; and of his grandfather’s voice moaning:  “I don’t know what’ll become of you if you go on like this.”

Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her stillness, Val said: 

“It’s all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run.  I only hope I shall come in for something.”

He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once.  This would show Uncle Soames, and all the Forsytes, how to be sportsmen.  He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional in giving his age as twenty-one.

Emily’s voice brought him back to earth.

“You mustn’t have a second glass, James.  Warmson!”

“Won’t they be astonished at Timothy’s!” burst out Imogen.  “I’d give anything to see their faces.  Do you have a sword, Val, or only a popgun?”

“What made you?”

His uncle’s voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val’s stomach.  Made him?  How answer that?  He was grateful for his grandmother’s comfortable: 

“Well, I think it’s very plucky of Val.  I’m sure he’ll make a splendid soldier; he’s just the figure for it.  We shall all be proud of him.”

“What had young Jolly Forsyte to do with it?  Why did you go together?” pursued Soames, uncannily relentless.  “I thought you weren’t friendly with him?”

“I’m not,” mumbled Val, “but I wasn’t going to be beaten by him.”  He saw his uncle look at him quite differently, as if approving.  His grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother tossing her head.  They all approved of his not being beaten by that cousin of his.  There must be a reason!  Val was dimly conscious of some disturbing point outside his range of vision;