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Irene’s face changed. “I don’t know,” she said; “you should ask her.”
“Does she write to you?” No.
“How’s that?” said James. “I thought you and she were such great friends.”
Irene turned on him. “Again,” she said, “you should ask her!”
“Well,” flustered James, frightened by her look, “it’s very odd that I can’t get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it is.”
He sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last:
“Well, I’ve warned you. You won’t look ahead. Soames he doesn’t say much, but I can see he won’t stand a great deal more of this sort of thing. You’ll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, what’s more, you’ll get no sympathy from anybody.”
Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. “I am very much obliged to you.”
James did not know what on earth to answer.
The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of coming thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up.
The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from the heated horses clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, rigid and unbending, exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, without ever turning their heads.
To James’ great relief they reached the house at last; the silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he had always thought so soft and mild, alarmed him.
The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered.
The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a tomb; a shudder ran down James’s spine. He quickly lifted the heavy leather curtains between the columns into the i
He could not restrain an exclamation of approval.
The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. He admired extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side, framing a huge white-tiled stove. The central partitions of the skylight had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the house.
He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery. Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on throwing open doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order, ready for immediate occupation.
He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing over in the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosi
Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over.
“How are you, Mr. Bosi
Soames turned his back, and walked away.
James looked from Bosi
What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He hastened up to his son.
Soames was pacing the picture-gallery.
“What’s the matter?” said James. “What’s all this?”
Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but James knew well enough that he was violently angry.
“Our friend,” he said, “has exceeded his instructions again, that’s all. So much the worse for him this time.”
He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary voice, and began to speak before he reached them.
“There’s a storm coming on. We’d better get home. We can’t take you, I suppose, Mr. Bosi
“Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. Don’t get caught in the storm!” and walked away.
“Well,” began James, “I don’t know…”
But the ‘sight of Irene’s face stopped him. Taking hold of his daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the carriage. He felt certain, quite certain, they had been making some appointment or other…
Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a Forsyte than the discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a certain sum has cost more. And this is reasonable, for upon the accuracy of his estimates the whole policy of his life is ordered. If he ca
After writing to Bosi
“Ah!” he had said to Bosi
What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, but after di
He was looking at his wife’s face when he came to this conclusion. Seated in her usual seat on the sofa, she was altering the lace on a collar. She had not once spoken to him all the evening.
He went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the mirror said: “Your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of himself; he will have to pay for it!”
She looked at him scornfully, and answered: “I don’t know what you are talking about!”
“You soon will. A mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt—four hundred pounds.”
“Do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this hateful, house?”
“I do.”
“And you know he’s got nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are meaner than I thought you.”
Soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china cup from the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though praying. He saw her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with anger, and taking no notice of the taunt, he asked quietly: