of his brother-in-law Montague Dartie, in Paris, which no one had quite
known what to make of, except that it was certainly not suicide--the
Iseeum Club had seemed more respectable to Soames. George, too, he knew,
had sown the last of his wild oats, and was committed definitely to the
joys of the table, eating only of the very best so as to keep his weight
down, and owning, as he said, "just one or two old screws to give me an
interest in life." He joined his cousin, therefore, in the bay window
without the embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had been used to feel
up there. George put out a well-kept hand.

"Haven't seen you since the War," he said. "How's your wife?"

"Thanks," said Soames coldly, "well enough."

Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and gloated
from his eye.

"That Belgian chap, Profond," he said, "is a member here now. He's a rum
customer."

"Quite!" muttered Soames. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose he's
made his Will."

"Yes."

"Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up--last of the old
lot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a rummy. Where are you
goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by rights."