"There's money, but no faith in things. We don't lay by for the future. These youngsters—it's all a short life and a merry one with them."
"There's a hat!" said Winifred. "I don't know—when you come to think of the people killed and all that in the war, it's rather wonderful, I think. There's no other country—Prosper says the rest are all bankrupt, except America; and of course her men always took their style in dress from us."
"Is that chap," said Soames, "really going to the South Seas?"
"Oh, one never knows where Prosper's going!"
"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?"