Just
now, the very "intriguing" recruits she had enlisted, did not march too
well with the old guard. It was as if her regiment were half in khaki,
half in scarlet and bearskins. But her strong and comfortable character
made the best of it in a drawing-room which typified, perhaps, more
perfectly than she imagined, the semi-bolshevized imperialism of her
country. After all, this was a day of merger, and you couldn't have too
much of it! Her eyes travelled indulgently among her guests. Soames had
gripped the back of a buhl chair; young Mont was behind that "awfully
amusing" screen, which no one as yet had been able to explain to her.
The ninth baronet had shied violently at a round scarlet table, inlaid
under glass with blue Australian butteries' wings, and was clinging
to her Louis-Quinze cabinet; Francie Forsyte had seized the new
mantel-board, finely carved with little purple grotesques on an ebony
ground; George, over by the old spinet, was holding a little sky-blue
book as if about to enter bets; Prosper Profond was twiddling the knob
of the open door, black with peacock-blue panels; and Annette's hands,
close by, were grasping her own waist; two Muskhams clung to the balcony
among the plants, as if feeling ill; Lady Mont, thin and brave-looking,
had taken up her long-handled glasses and was gazing at the central
light shade, of ivory and orange dashed with deep magenta, as if the
heavens had opened. Everybody, in fact, seemed holding on to something.
Only Fleur, still in her bridal dress, was detached 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 repl