“Haven't seen you since the War,” he said. “How's your wife?”
“Thanks,” said Soames coldly, “well enough.”
Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and gloated from his eye.
“That Belgian chap, Profond,” he said, “is a member here now. He's a rum customer.”
“Quite!” muttered Soames. “What did you want to see me about?”
“Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose he's made his Will.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up—last of the old lot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a mummy. Where are you goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by rights.”
Soames shook his head. “Highgate, the family vault.”
“Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere else. They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last on, you know. Don't we get anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of them—average age eighty-eight—I worked it out. That ought to be equal to triplets.”