Soames had found himself almost insensibly retaining control of
all purely Forsyte affairs.

Hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. Since the
death 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."