oop from the Mont contingent--so
far away was "Superior Dosset" now. Was there, in the crease of his
trousers, the expression of his moustache, his accent, or the shine
on his top-hat, a pin to choose between Soames and the ninth baronet
himself? Was not Fleur as self-possessed, quick, glancing, pretty,
and hard as the likeliest Muskham, Mont, or Charwell filly present? If
anything, the Forsytes had it in dress and looks and manners. They had
become "upper class" and now their name would be formally recorded in
the Stud Book, their money joined to land. Whether this was a little
late in the day, and those rewards of the possessive instinct, lands and
money, destined for the melting-pot--was still a question so moot that
it was not mooted. After all, Timothy had said Consols were goin'
up. Timothy, the last, the missing link; Timothy, in extremis on the
Bayswater Road--so Francie had reported. It was whispered, too, that
this young Mont was a sort of socialist--strangely wise of him, and in
the nature of insurance, considering the days they lived in. There was
no uneasiness on that score. The landed classes produced that sort
of amiable foolishness at times, turned to safe uses and confined to
theory. As George remarked to his sister Francie: "They'll soon be
having puppies--that'll give him pause."

The church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of
the East window looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring to
counteract the somewhat lurid phraseology of a Service calculated to
keep the thoughts of all on puppies. Forsytes, Haymans, Tweetymans,
sat in the left aisle; Monts, Charwells; Muskhams in the right; while
a sprinkling of Fleur's fellow-sufferers at school, and of Mont's
fellow-sufferers in, the War, gaped indiscriminately from either side,
and three maiden ladies, who had dropped in on their way from Skyward's
brought up the rear, together with two Mont retainers and Fleur's old
nurse. In the unsettled state of the country as full a house as could be
expected.

Mrs. Val Dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezed his
hand more than once during the performance. To her, who knew the plot
of this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was well-nigh painful.
'I wonder if Jon knows by instinct,' she thought--Jon, out in British
Columbia. She had received a letter from him only that morning which had
made her smile and say:

"Jon's in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be