“Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. The two families don't know each other.”
“How romantic!”
'Now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. The word was to him extravagant and dangerous—it was as if she had said: “How jolly!”
“And they'll continue not to know each, other,” he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the expression on Irene's face, he breathed again.
“What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say.
“About a house. It's ancient history for you. Your grandfather died the day you were born. He was ninety.”
“Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?”
“I don't know,” said Soames. “They're all dispersed now. The old ones are dead, except Timothy.”
Fleur clasped her hands.
“Timothy? Isn't that delicious?”