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
when she thought he wasn't noticing, as if she were wondering still what
he had done--forsooth--to make those people hate him so. Well, there
it was! Annette had come back, and things had worn on through the
summer--very miserable, till suddenly Fleur had said she was going to
marry young Mont. She had shown him a little more affection when she
told him that. And he had yielded--what was the good of opposing it? God
knew that he had never wished to thwart her in anything! And the young
man seemed quite delirious about her. No doubt she was in a reckless
mood, and she was young, absurdly young. But if he opposed her, he
didn't know what she would do; for all he could tell she might want to
take up a profession, become a doctor or solicitor, some nonsense. She
had no aptitude for painting, writing, music, in his view the legitimate
occupations of unmarried women, if they must do something in these
days. On the whole, she was safer married, for he could see too well how
feverish and restless she was at home. Annette, too, had been in favour
of it--Annette, from behind the veil of his refusal to know what she was
about, if she was about anything. Annette had said: "Let her marry this
young man. He is a nice boy--not so highty-flighty as he seems." Where
she got her expressions, he didn't know--but her opinion soothed his
doubts. His wife, whatever her conduct, had clear eyes and an almost
depressing amount of common sense. He had settled fifty thousand on
Fleur, taking care that there was no cross settlement in case it didn't
turn out well. Could it turn out well? She had not got over that other
boy--he knew. They were to go to Spain for the honeymoon. He would be
even lonelier when she was gone. But later, perhaps, she would forget,
and turn to him again! Winifred's voice broke on his reverie.