a toss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this fashion with manufactured unction before a crowd of fashionable free-thinkers—­for who thought otherwise than freely, or not at all, when they were “dolled” up—­seemed to her as near a sin as one could find in an age which had abolished them.  Her eyes wandered from the prelate in his robes (a Charwell-the Forsytes had not as yet produced a prelate) to Val, beside her, thinking—­she was certain—­of the Mayfly filly at fifteen to one for the Cambridgeshire.  They passed on and caught the profile of the ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of the kneeling process.  She could just see the neat ruck above his knees where he had pulled his trousers up, and thought:  ‘Val’s forgotten to pull up his!’ Her eyes passed to the pew in front of her, where Winifred’s substantial form was gowned with passion, and on again to Soames and Annette kneeling side by side.  A little smile came on her lips—­Prosper Profond, back from the South Seas of the Channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows behind.  Yes!  This was a funny “small” business, however it turned out; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper papers to-morrow morning.

They had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across the aisle, singing of the hosts of Midian.  Her little finger touched Val’s thumb—­they were holding the same hymn-book—­and a tiny thrill passed through her, preserved—­from twenty years ago.  He stooped and whispered: 

“I say, d’you remember the rat?” The rat at their wedding in Cape Colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at the Registrar’s!  And between her little and third forgers 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 scrutinized 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.