“Monty!” said Winifred stonily.

Soames spun round.  “What!”

“Back!”

“Hoist,” muttered Soames, “with our own petard.  Why the deuce didn’t you let me try cruelty?  I always knew it was too much risk this way.”

“Oh!  Don’t talk about that!  What shall I do?”

Soames answered, with a deep, deep sound.

“Well?” said Winifred impatiently.

“What has he to say for himself?”

“Nothing.  One of his boots is split across the toe.”

Soames stared at her.

“Ah!” he said, “of course!  On his beam ends.  So—­it begins again!  This’ll about finish father.”

“Can’t we keep it from him?”

“Impossible.  He has an uncanny flair for anything that’s worrying.”

And he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces.  “There ought to be some way in law,” he muttered, “to make him safe.”

“No,” cried Winifred, “I won’t be made a fool of again; I’d sooner put up with him.”

The two stared at each other.  Their hearts were full of feeling, but they could give it no expression—­Forsytes that they were.

“Where did you leave him?”

“In the bath,” and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh.  “The only thing he’s brought back is lavender-water.”

“Steady!” said Soames, “you’re thoroughly upset.  I’ll go back with you.”

“What’s the use?”

“We ought to make terms with him.”

“Terms!  It’ll always be the same.  When he recovers—­cards and betting, drink and ....!” She was silent, remembering the look on her husband’s face.  The burnt child—­the burnt child.  Perhaps...!

“Recovers?” replied Soames:  “Is he ill?”

“No; burnt out; that’s all.”

Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his coat and got into it, he scented his handkerchief with eau-de-Cologne, threaded his watch-chain, and said:  “We haven’t any luck.”

And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, as if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his own.

“I’d like to see mother,” she said.

“She’ll be with father in their room.  Come down quietly to the study.  I’ll get her.”

Winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable for a Canaletto too doubtful to be placed elsewhere, and a fine collection of Law Reports unopened for many years.  Here she stood, with her back to maroon-coloured curtains close-drawn, staring at the empty grate, till her mother came in followed by Soames.

“Oh! my poor dear!” said Emily:  “How miserable you look in here!  This is too bad of him, really!”

As a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of all unfashionable emotion that it was impossible to go up and give her daughter a good hug.  But there was comfort in her cushioned voice, and her still dimpled shoulders under some rare black lace.  Summoning pride and the desire not to distress her mother, Winifred said in her most off-hand voice: