"Ah!" murmured James profoundly. "That house--I knew how it would be!"
And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. His son's
tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family,
had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and
misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill, because Robin Hill
meant Holly, turned to Emily and said:
"Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?" And, receiving her nod,
went on: "I wish you'd tell me about him, Granny. What became of Aunt
Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked-up about something
to-night."
Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James'
ear.
"What's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips.
"Who's been seeing her? I knew we hadn't heard the last of that."
"Now, James," said Emily, "eat your dinner. Nobody's been seeing
anybody."
James put down his fork.
"There you go," he said. "I might die before you'd tell me of it. Is
Soames getting a divorce?"
"Nonsense," said Emily with incomparable aplomb; "Soames is much too
sensible."
James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers
together on the skin and bone of it.
"She--she was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark the
conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, when the
saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert,
and Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather's
kiss--like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort
of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weakness--he returned to the
charge in the hall.
"Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother's
getting a divorce?"
"Your Uncle Soames," said Emily, and her voice had in it an exaggerated
assurance, "is a lawyer, my dear boy. He's sure to know best."
"Is he?" muttered Val. "But what did become of Aunt Irene? I remember
she was jolly good-looking."
"She--er...." said Emily, "behaved very badly. We don't talk about it."
"Well, I don't want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs,"
ejaculated Val; "it's a brutal idea. Why couldn't father be prevented
without its being made public?"
Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce,
owing to her fashionable proclivities--so many of those whose legs had
been under her table having gained a certain notoriety. When, however,
it touched her own family, she liked it no better than other people. But
she was eminently practical, and a woman of courage, who never pursued a
shadow in preference to its substance.