Val grinned.
“Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let’s have fizz.”
Warmson smiled faintly—in his opinion Val was a young limb.
“I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val.”
“I say,” Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, “I’m not at school any more, you know.”
Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the stag’s-horn coat stand, with the words:
“Mr. Valerus, ma’am.”
“Confound him!” thought Val, entering.
A warm embrace, a “Well, Val!” from Emily, and a rather quavery “So there you are at last!” from James, restored his sense of dignity.
“Why didn’t you let us know? There’s only saddle of mutton. Champagne, Warmson,” said Emily. And they went in.