“He's a sign of the times,” muttered Soames, “if you like.”
Winifred's hand gripped his arm.
“Don't turn your head,” she said in a low voice, “but look to your right in the front row of the Stand.”
Soames looked as best he could under that limitation. A man in a grey top hat, grey-bearded, with thin brown, folded cheeks, and a certain elegance of posture, sat there with a woman in a lawn-coloured frock, whose dark eyes were fixed on himself. Soames looked quickly at his feet. How funnily feet moved, one after the other like that! Winifred's voice said in his ear:
“Jolyon looks very ill; but he always had style. She doesn't change—except her hair.”
“Why did you tell Fleur about that business?”
“I didn't; she picked it up. I always knew she would.”
“Well, it's a mess. She's set her heart upon their boy.”
“The little wretch,” murmured Winifred. “She tried to take me in about that. What shall you do, Soames?”
“Be guided by events.”