Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. George had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big and lonely in those black clothes. Soames had never known him so subdued. “I suppose he feels it in a way,” he thought. “They must have about fifty thousand each, all told. They ought to keep the estate together. If there’s a war, house property will go down. Uncle Roger was a good judge, though.” And the face of Annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her blue eyes with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French figure. “Take steps!” he thought. Reentering Winifred’s house he encountered Val, and they went in together. An idea had occurred to Soames. His cousin Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, the first step would be to go down and see him at Robin Hill. Robin Hill! The odd⁠—the very odd feeling those words brought back! Robin Hill⁠—the house Bosinney had built for him and Irene⁠—the house they had never lived in⁠—the fatal house! And Jolyon lived there now! H’m! And suddenly he thought: “They say he’s got a boy at Oxford! Why not take young Val down and introduce them! It’s an excuse! Less bald⁠—very much less bald!” So, as they went upstairs, he said to Val: