As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced.  It was known on Forsyte ’Change that Irene regretted her marriage.  Her regret was disapproved of.  She ought to have known her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes.

James reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) in an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles.  Soames was reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a very warm man.  He had a capital income from the business—­for Soames, like his father, was a member of that well-known firm of solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte—­and had always been very careful.  He had done quite unusually well with some mortgages he had taken up, too—­a little timely foreclosure—­most lucky hits!

There was no reason why Irene should not be happy, yet they said she’d been asking for a separate room.  He knew where that ended.  It wasn’t as if Soames drank.

James looked at his daughter-in-law.  That unseen glance of his was cold and dubious.  Appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of personal grievance.  Why should he be worried like this?  It was very likely all nonsense; women were funny things!  They exaggerated so, you didn’t know what to believe; and then, nobody told him anything, he had to find out everything for himself.  Again he looked furtively at Irene, and across from her to Soames.  The latter, listening to Aunt Juley, was looking up, under his brows in the direction of Bosinney.

‘He’s fond of her, I know,’ thought James.  ’Look at the way he’s always giving her things.’

And the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck him with increased force.

It was a pity, too, she was a taking little thing, and he, James, would be really quite fond of her if she’d only let him.  She had taken up lately with June; that was doing her no good, that was certainly doing her no good.  She was getting to have opinions of her own.  He didn’t know what she wanted with anything of the sort.  She’d a good home, and everything she could wish for.  He felt that her friends ought to be chosen for her.  To go on like this was dangerous.

June, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had dragged from Irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the necessity of facing the evil, by separation, if need be.  But in the face of these exhortations, Irene had kept a brooding silence, as though she found terrible the thought of this struggle carried through in cold blood.  He would never give her up, she had said to June.

“Who cares?” June cried; “let him do what he likes—­you’ve only to stick to it!” And she had not scrupled to say something of this sort at Timothy’s; James, when he heard of it, had felt a natural indignation and horror.