ht be "a good devil," but then again he might not.
He saw him rejoin George Forsyte, and thereafter saw him no more.

He spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in Green
Street.

Winifred Dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, considering
the three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with Montague
Dartie, till almost happily released by a French staircase. It was to
her a vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from South
Africa after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and to have
taken a fancy to his wife. Winifred, who in the late seventies, before
her marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, pleasure, and
fashion, confessed her youth outclassed by the donzellas of the day.
They seemed, for instance, to regard marriage as an incident, and
Winifred sometimes regretted that she had not done the same; a second,
third, fourth incident might have secured her a partner of less
dazzling inebriety; though, after all, he had left her Val, Imogen,
Maud, Benedict (almost a colonel and unharmed by the war)--none of whom
had been divorced as yet. The steadiness of her children often amazed
one who remembered their father; but, as she was fond of believing,
they were really all Forsytes, favouring herself, with the exception
perhaps of Imogen. Her brother's "little girl" Fleur frankly puzzled
Winifred. The child was as restless as any of these modern young
women--"She's a small flame in a draught," Prosper Profond had said one
day after dinner--but she did not flop, or talk at the top of her
voice. The steady Forsyteism in Winifred's own character instinctively
resented the feeling in the air, the modern girl's habits and her
motto: "All's much of a muchness! Spend! To-morrow we shall be poor!"
She found it a saving grace in Fleur that having set her heart on a
thing, she had no change of heart until she got it--though what
happened after, Fleur was, of course, too young to have made evident.
The child was a "very pretty little thing," too, and quite a credit to
take about, with her mother's French taste and gift for wearing
clothes; everybody turned to look at Fleur--great consideration to
Winifred, a lover of the style and distinction which had so cruelly
deceived her in the case of Montague Dartie.

In discussing her with Val, at breakfast on Saturday morning, Winifred
dwelt on the family skeleton.

"That little affair of your father-in-law and your Aunt Irene,
V