it had been to his grandfather. Of course she and Juley--"We were in
pantalettes then, my dear"--had not felt it much at the time.

Soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate three
of those macaroons for which Timothy's was famous. His faint, pale,
supercilious smile had deepened just a little. Really, his family
remained hopelessly provincial, however much of London they might
possess between them. In these go-ahead days their provincialism stared
out even more than it used to. Why, old Nicholas was still a Free
Trader, and a member of that antediluvian home of Liberalism, the Remove
Club--though, to be sure, the members were pretty well all Conservatives
now, or he himself could not have joined; and Timothy, they said, still
wore a nightcap. Aunt Juley spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so
well, hardly a day older than he did when dear Ann died, and they were
all there together, dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear Roger.
She paused and caught the tear which had climbed the pout on her right
cheek. Did he--did he ever hear anything of Irene nowadays? Aunt
Hester visibly interposed her shoulder. Really, Juley was always saying
something! The smile left Soames' face, and he put his cup down. Here
was his subject broached for him, and for all his desire to expand, he
could not take advantage.

Aunt Juley went on rather hastily:

"They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out and out;
then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it for her life
only."

Had Soames heard that?