ached from all support, flinging her words and glances to
left and right.

The room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation. Nobody
could hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of little
consequence, since no one waited for anything so slow as an answer.
Modern conversation seemed to Winifred so different from the days of her
prime, when a drawl was all the vogue. Still it was "amusing," which, of
course, was all that mattered. Even the Forsytes were talking with
extreme rapidity--Fleur and Christopher, and Imogen, and young Nicholas's
youngest, Patrick. Soames, of course, was silent; but George, by the
spinet, kept up a running commentary, and Francie, by her mantel-shelf.
Winifred drew nearer to the ninth baronet. He seemed to promise a
certain repose; his nose was fine and drooped a little, his grey
moustaches too; and she said, drawling through her smile:

"It's rather nice, isn't it?"

His reply shot out of his smile like a snipped bread pellet

"D'you remember, in Frazer, the tribe that buries the bride up to the
waist?"

He spoke as fast as anybody! He had dark lively little eyes, too, all
crinkled round like a Catholic priest's. Winifred felt suddenly he might
say things she would regret.

"They're always so amusing--weddings," she murmured, and moved on to
Soames. He was curiously still, and Winifred saw at once what was
dictating his immobility. To his right was George Forsyte, to his left
Annette and Prosper Profond. He could not move without either seeing
those two together, or the reflection of them in George Forsyte's japing
eyes. He was quite right not to be taking notice.

"They say Timothy's sinking;" he said glumly.

"Where will you put him, Soames?"

"Highgate." He counted on his fingers. "It'll make twelve of them
there, including wives. How do you think Fleur looks?"

"Remarkably well."

Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could not rid
himself of the impression that this business was unnatural--remembering
still that crushed figure burrowing into the corner of the sofa. From
that night to this day he had received from her no confidences. He knew
from his chauffeur that she had made one more attempt on Robin Hill and
drawn blank--an empty house, no one at home. He knew that she had
received a letter, but not what was in it, except that it had made her
hide herself and cry. He had remarked that she looked at him sometimes
whe