“I dare say you’re dull at home,” he said. “Any day you like to come and dine with me, I’ll give you as good a bottle of wine as you’ll get in London.”

“Miss June Forsyte⁠— Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!⁠ ⁠… Mr. Boswainey!⁠ ⁠…”

Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice:

“Dinner, now⁠—dinner!”

He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her since she was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was placed between Irene and his fiancée. On the other side of June was James with Mrs. Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, Nicholas with Hatty Chessman, Soames with Mrs. Small, completing the circle to Swithin again.

Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There are, for instance, no hors d’oeuvre. The reason for this is unknown. Theory among the younger members traces it to the disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once that hors d’oeuvre are but poor things. The Jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park Lane, are now and then unfaithful.

A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first entrée, but interspersed with remarks such as, “Tom’s bad again; I can’t tell what’s the matter with him!”⁠—“I suppose Ann doesn’t come down in the mornings?”⁠—“What’s the name of your doctor, Fanny? Stubbs? He’s a quack!”⁠—“Winifred? She’s got too many children. Four, isn’t it? She’s as thin as a lath!”⁠—“What d’you give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry for me!”