By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren.
“Well,” said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, “you’ll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it.”
“Of course,” murmured Val; “if it is good. How much will it be, Grandfather?”
“Three hundred and fifty; it’s too much. I had next to nothing at your age.”
Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. “I don’t know what your young cousin has,” said James; “he’s up there. His father’s a rich man.”
“Aren’t you?” asked Val hardily.
“I?” replied James, flustered. “I’ve got so many expenses. Your father....” and he was silent.
“Cousin Jolyon’s got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with Uncle Soames—ripping stables.”
“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.”