After writing to Bosinney in the terms that have already been chronicled, Soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his mind.  He believed that he had made the matter of the final cost so very plain that the possibility of its being again exceeded had really never entered his head.  On hearing from Bosinney that his limit of twelve thousand pounds would be exceeded by something like four hundred, he had grown white with anger.  His original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been ten thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses.  Over this last expenditure, however, Bosinney had put himself completely in the wrong.  How on earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself Soames could not conceive; but he had done so, and all the rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him for so long was now focussed in rage at this crowning piece of extravagance.  The attitude of the confident and friendly husband was gone.  To preserve property—­his wife—­he had assumed it, to preserve property of another kind he lost it now.

“Ah!” he had said to Bosinney when he could speak, “and I suppose you’re perfectly contented with yourself.  But I may as well tell you that you’ve altogether mistaken your man!”

What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself and Bosinney to make quite sure.  There could be no two opinions about it—­the fellow had made himself liable for that extra four hundred, or, at all events, for three hundred and fifty of it, and he would have to make it good.

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: 

“Are you carrying on a flirtation with Bosinney?”

“No, I am not!”

Her eyes met his, and he looked away.  He neither believed nor disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was thinking.  The sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond measure.