"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 mummy.
Where are you goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by
rights."

Soames shook his head. "Highgate, the family vault."

"Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere
else. They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last
on, you know. Don't we GET anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of
them--average age eighty-eight--I worked it out. That ought to be
equal to triplets."

"Is that all?" said Soames. "I must be getting on."

'You unsociable devil,' George's eyes seemed to answer.

"Yes, that's all: Look him up in his mausoleum--the old chap might
want to prophesy." The grin died on the rich curves of his face,
and he added: "Haven't you attorneys invented a way yet of dodging
this damned income tax? It hits the fixed inherited income like
the very deuce. I used to have two thousand five hundred a year;
now I've got a beggarly fifteen hundred, and the price of living
doubled."

"Ah!" murmured Soames, "the turf's in danger."

Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence.