"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?"
"Not at all," said Soames. It offended him that she should think "Timothy" delicious—a kind of insult to his breed. This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. "You go and see the old boy. He might want to prophesy." Ah! If Timothy could see the disquiet England of his greatnephews and greatnieces, he would certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes—George was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.
"Where is Robin Hill, Father?"
Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What did she want to know for?