His universal comment was:  “What can they expect?  I have it myself, if I’m not careful!”

When he went to Soames’s that evening he felt that life was hard on him:  There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was ill—­he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had called there three times now without her being able to see him!  And this idea of Soames’s, building a house, that would have to be looked into.  As to the trouble with Irene, he didn’t know what was to come of that—­anything might come of it!

He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of being miserable.  It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room.  She was wearing her gold-coloured frock—­for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at home—­and she had adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on which James’s eyes riveted themselves at once.

“Where do you get your things?” he said in an aggravated voice.  “I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well.  That rose-point, now—­that’s not real!”

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!”