Cape
Colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at the
Registrar's! And between her little and third finger she squeezed his
thumb hard.

The hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his discourse. He
told them of the dangerous times they lived in, and the awful conduct
of the House of Lords in connection with divorce. They were all
soldiers--he said--in the trenches under the poisonous gas of the
Prince of Darkness, and must be manful. The purpose of marriage was
children, not mere sinful happiness.

An imp danced in Holly's eyes--Val's eyelashes were meeting. Whatever
happened, he must NOT snore. Her finger and thumb closed on his thigh;
till he stirred uneasily.

The discourse was over, the danger past. They were signing in the
vestry; and general relaxation had set in.

A voice behind her said:

"Will she stay the course?"

"Who's that?" she whispered.

"Old George Forsyte!"

Holly demurely scrutinised one of whom she had often heard. Fresh from
South Africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never saw one
without an almost childish curiosity. He was very big, and very dapper;
his eyes gave her a funny feeling of having no particular clothes.

"They're off!" she heard him say.

They came, stepping from the chancel. Holly looked first in young
Mont's face. His lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting from
his feet to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before them as if
to face a firing party. He gave Holly the feeling that he was
spiritually intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That was different. The girl
was perfectly composed, prettier than ever, in her white robes and veil
over her banged dark chestnut hair; her eyelids hovered demure over her
dark hazel eyes. Outwardly, she seemed all there. But, inwardly, where
was she? As those two passed, Fleur raised her eyelids--the restless
glint of those clear whites remained on Holly's vision as might the
flutter of a caged bird's wings.

In Green Street Winifred stood to receive, just a little less composed
than usual. Soames' request for the use of her house had come on her at
a deeply psychological moment. Under the influence of a remark of
Prosper Profond, she had begun to exchange her Empire for
Expressionistic furniture. There were the most amusing arrangements,
with violet, green, and orange blobs and scriggles, to be had at
Mealard's. Another month and the change would have been complete. Just
now, the very "intriguing