His grandfather's voice travelled to him thinly. "Val, try a little of

the Madeira with your ice. You won't get that up at college."

Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of the

old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and thought: 'Now for

it!' It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a gentle glow spread in his

veins, already heated. With a rapid look round, he said, "I joined

the Imperial Yeomanry to-day, Granny," and emptied his glass as though

drinking the health of his own act.

"What!" It was his mother's desolate little word.

"Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together."

"You didn't sign?" from Uncle Soames.

"Rather! We go into camp on Monday."

"I say!" cried Imogen.

All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind his

ear.

"What's that?" he said. "What's he saying? I can't hear."

Emily reached forward to pat Val's hand.

"It's only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it's very nice for

him. He'll look his best in uniform."

"Joined the--rubbish!" came from James, tremulously loud. "You can't see

two yards before your nose. He--he'll have to go out there. Why! he'll

be fighting before he knows where he is."

Val saw Imogen's eyes admiring him, and his mother still and fashionable

with her handkerchief before her lips.

Suddenly his uncle spoke.

"You're under age."

"I thought of that," smiled Val; "I gave my age as twenty-one."

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!"

"Won't they be astonished at Timothy's!" burst out Imogen. "I'd give

anything to see their faces. Do you have a sword, Val, or only a

popgun?"

"What made you?"

His uncle's voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val's stomach.

Made him? How answer that? He was grateful for his grandmother's

comfortable:

"Well, I think it's very plucky of Val. I'm sure he'll make a splendid

soldier; he's just the figure for it. We shall all be proud of him."




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