He heard his grandmother’s admiring, “Well, Val, that was plucky of you;” was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his champagne glass; and of his grandfather’s voice moaning: “ I don’t know what’ll become of you if you go on like this.”

Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her stillness, Val said:

“It’s all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. I only hope I shall come in for something.”

He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. This would show Uncle Soames, and all the Forsytes, how to be sportsmen. He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional in giving his age as twenty-one.

Emily’s voice brought him back to earth.

“You mustn’t have a second glass, James. Warmson!”