Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.
And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: He didn’t know – he expected she was spending a pretty penny on dress.
The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames’s usual place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day; and she began to talk to him about himself.
Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that steals upon a fruit in the sun; a sense of being caressed, and praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and, on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine merchant know that he had been swindled.
Looking up from his food, he remarked:
‘You’ve a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn’t wonder if it was worth money!’
He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture on the wall opposite, which he himself had given them:
‘I’d no idea it was so good!’ he said.
They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene closely.
‘That’s what I call a capital little dinner,’ he murmured, breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; ‘nothing heavy – and not too Frenchified. But I can’t get it at home. I pay my cook sixty pounds a year, but she can’t give me a dinner like that!’
He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures.
James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the top – her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips, swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed.
It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something strange and foreign.
Now what was she thinking about – sitting back like that?
Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been awakened from a pleasant dream.
‘What d’you do with yourself all day?’ he said. ‘You never come round to Park Lane!’
She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding them – it would mean too much.
‘I expect the fact is, you haven’t time,’ he said; ‘you’re always about with June. I expect you’re useful to her with her young man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she’s never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn’t like it, I fancy, being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she’s always hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here every day. Now, what do you think of him? D’you think he knows his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the grey mare was the better horse!’
The colour deepened in Irene’s face; and James watched her suspiciously.
‘Perhaps you don’t quite understand Mr Bosinney,’ she said.
‘Don’t understand him!’ James hurried out: ‘Why not? – you can see he’s one of these artistic chaps. They say he’s clever – they all think they’re clever. You know more about him than I do,’ he added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her.
‘He is designing a house for Soames,’ she said softly, evidently trying to smooth things over.
‘That brings me to what I was going to say,’ continued James; ‘I don’t know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why doesn’t he go to a first-rate man?’