Imogen's frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her
mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month of March.
With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for perfection. It took her
mind off the slowly approaching rite which would give her a freedom
but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her boy and his
fast approaching departure for a war from which the news remained
disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers, or bright gadflies
hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and her 'little
daughter,' tall nearly as herself and with a bust measurement not far
inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent Street, the establishments of
Hanover Square and of Bond Street, lost in consideration and the feel of
fabrics. Dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar
gait paraded before Winifred and Imogen, draped in 'creations.' The
models--'Very new, modom; quite the latest thing--' which those two
reluctantly turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which
they were obliged to have nearly emptied James' bank. It was no good
doing things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making
this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. Their
patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures who swam
about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved
by faith. It was for Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess
Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen
an experience by no means too unpleasant--she often looked so nice, and
flattery was implicit everywhere: in a word it was 'amusing.'

On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted
Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and
Baker's, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream,
turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with
spring. Opening the door--freshly painted a light olive-green; nothing
neglected that year to give Imogen a good send-off--Winifred passed
towards the silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her
nostrils twitched. What was that scent?

Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed.
Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her breast, Winifred
said:

"Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner."

Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the door
of her room