ass, 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 ma