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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before. Is it true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte's father?" Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained.
No sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren. Four little Darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance. The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet.
But he won't he's like me. Dear Val! When Soames entered his sister's little Louis Quinze drawing-room, with its small balcony, always flowered with hanging geraniums in the summer, and now with pots of Lilium Auratum, he was struck by the immutability of human affairs. It looked just the same as on his first visit to the newly married Darties twenty-one years ago.
Chance had, in fact, guided the Val Darties to a spot where the South Downs had real charm when the sun shone.
The old-fashioned heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of Shirt-on-fire. But how much more than his shirt depended on this granddaughter of Suspender! At that roving age of forty-five, trying to Forsytes and, though perhaps less distinguishable from any other age, trying even to Darties Montague had fixed his current fancy on a dancer.
Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: "I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he's...." "Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for Winifred and the little Darties. He's a treat." Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie made them kin.
Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled chime of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen's leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distant rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none can put a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncatalogued emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departed Forsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night strolls back into a world which had once suited their embodied spirits.
Chance had, in fact, guided the Val Darties to a spot where the South Downs had real charm when the sun shone.
"Auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before. Is it true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte's father?" Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained.
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