James interrupted her reverie:

“But where,” he asked, “was Timothy? Hadn’t he come with them?”

Through Aunt Ann’s compressed lips a tender smile forced its way:

“No, he didn’t think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria about; and he so liable to take things.”

James answered:

“Well, HE takes good care of himself. I can’t afford to take the care of myself that he does.”

Nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, was dominant in that remark.

Timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. The baby of the family, a publisher by profession, he had some years before, whenbusiness was at full tide, scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had not yet come, but which ultimately, as all agreed,was bound to set in, and, selling his share in a firm engaged mainly in the production of religious books, had invested thequite conspicuous proceeds in three per cent. consols. By this act he had at once assumed an isolated position, no otherForsyte being content with less than four per cent. for his money; and this isolation had slowly and surely undermined aspirit perhaps better than commonly endowed with caution. He had become almost a myth — a kind of incarnation of securityhaunting the background of the Forsyte universe. He had never committed the imprudence of marrying, or encumbering himselfin any way with children.

James resumed, tapping the piece of china:

“This isn’t real old Worcester. I s’pose Jolyon’s told you something about the young man. From all I can learn, he’s gotno business, no income, and no connection worth speaking of; but then, I know nothing — nobody tells me anything.”

Aunt Ann shook her head. Over her square-chinned, aquiline old face a trembling passed; the spidery fingers of her handspressed against each other and interlaced, as though she were subtly recharging her will.