“How delightful!” she said.  “When?”

“November.”

Such a lucky month!  But she did wish it could be sooner.  It was a long time for James to wait, at his age!

To wait!  They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves.  Indeed, it was their great distraction.  To wait!  For The Times to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them up; for news of Nicholas’ health; for that decision of Christopher’s about going on the stage; for information concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder’s nephew; for the doctor to come about Hester’s inclination to wake up early in the morning; for books from the library which were always out; for Timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens.  To wait, one on each side of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying knitting-needles and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to stop—­like Canute’s waves—­from any further advance in colour.  To wait in their black silks or satins for the Court to say that Hester might wear her dark green, and Juley her darker maroon.  To wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the little joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field.  And this new event was so well worth waiting for.  Soames had always been their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage.  This new event—­the birth of an heir to Soames—­was so important for him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to die without some certainty about things.  James did so dislike uncertainty; and with Montague, of course, he could not feel really satisfied to leave no grand-children but the young Darties.  After all, one’s own name did count!  And as James’ ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was taking.  He would be the first of the Forsytes to reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life.  That was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when they had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of.  There was, of course, a better world.  ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions’ was one of Aunt Juley’s favourite sayings—­it always comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear Roger.  The Bible was, indeed, a great resource, and on very fine Sundays there was church in the morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into Timothy’s study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament casually among the books on his little table—­he was a great reader, of course, having been a publisher.  But she had noticed that Timothy was always cross