'One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.'
In the upper room at French's, where a Forsyte could still get heavy
English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.
Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something
unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he
had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being
fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that
would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty
fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English
waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round
gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only
recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your
chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours,
like a gentleman.
He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his
waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the
West End. He felt that he should relish his soup--the entire morning had
been given to winding up the estate of an old friend.
After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began:
"How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You'd
better take her. I should think there'll be a lot that'll want seeing
to."
Without looking up, Soames answered: "She won't go."
"Won't go? What's the meaning of that? She's going to live in the house,
isn't she?"
Soames made no reply.
"I don't know what's coming to women nowadays," mumbled James; "I never
used to have any trouble with them. She's had too much liberty. She's
spoiled...."
Soames lifted his eyes: "I won't have anything said against her," he
said unexpectedly.
The silence was only broken now by the supping of James's soup.
The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped him.
"That's not the way to serve port," he said; "take them away, and bring
the bottle."
Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his
rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts.
"Your mother's in bed," he said; "you can have the carriage to take you
down. I should think Irene'd like the drive. This young Bosinney'll be
there, I suppose, to show you over."
Soames nodded.
"I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he's made
finishing off," pursued James. "I'll just drive round and pick you both
up."
"I am going down by train," replied Soames. "If you like to drive round
and see, Irene might go with you, I can't tell."