And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a
cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! it was
unbearable--just as he was going up to Oxford!

"Can't mother be protected without?" he said. "I could look after her.
It could always be done later if it was really necessary."

A smile played for a moment round Soames' lips, and became bitter.

"You don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay in
such matters."

"Why?"

"I tell you, boy, nothing's so fatal. I know from experience."

His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round-eyed,
never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. Oh! Yes--he
remembered now--there had been an Aunt Irene, and something had
happened--something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once
use an unmentionable word of her.

"I don't want to speak ill of your father," Soames went on doggedly,
"but I know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back on your
mother's hands before a year's over. You can imagine what that will mean
to her and to all of you after this. The only thing is to cut the knot
for good."

In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at his
mother's face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the
fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most.

"All right, mother," he said; "we'll back you up. Only I'd like to know
when it'll be. It's my first term, you know. I don't want to be up there
when it comes off."

"Oh! my dear boy," murmured Winifred, "it is a bore for you." So, by
habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was the most
poignant regret. "When will it be, Soames?"

"Can't tell--not for months. We must get restitution first."

'What the deuce is that?' thought Val. 'What silly brutes lawyers are!
Not for months! I know one thing: I'm not going to dine in!' And he
said:

"Awfully sorry, mother, I've got to go out to dinner now."

Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; they
both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of
feeling.

Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and depressed.
And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover that he had only
eighteen-pence. One couldn't dine off eighteen-pence, and he was very
hungry. He looked longingly at the windows of the Iseeum Club, where he
had often eaten of the best with his father! Those pearls!