The Jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park
Lane, are now and then unfaithful.
A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the
subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first entree,
but interspersed with remarks such as, "Tom's bad again; I can't tell
what's the matter with him!" "I suppose Ann doesn't come down in the
mornings?"--"What's the name of your doctor, Fanny?" "Stubbs?" "He's a
quack!"--"Winifred? She's got too many children. Four, isn't it? She's
as thin as a lath!"--"What d'you give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry
for me!"
With the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself heard,
which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved into its primal
element, is found to be James telling a story, and this goes on for
a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon what must universally be
recognised as the crowning point of a Forsyte feast--'the saddle of
mutton.'
No Forsyte has given a dinner without providing a saddle of mutton.
There is something in its succulent solidity which makes it suitable to
people 'of a certain position.' It is nourishing and tasty; the sort of
thing a man remembers eating. It has a past and a future, like a deposit
paid into a bank; and it is something that can be argued about.
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