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 hummed 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?”

“Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!”

James rose, and took a turn with bent head.