The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill,

in the dining-room of this house--'quite individual, my dear--really

elegant'--Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on

Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and

many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: 'The

servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays--they've nothing to do but

play the concertina.'

The custom had produced no revolution. For--to Soames a rather

deplorable sign--servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of

all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the

weaknesses of human nature.

The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly,

at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth--a

distinguishing elegance--and so far had not spoken a word.

Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been

buying, and so long as he talked Irene's silence did not distress him.

This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build

had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind

to tell her.

His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had

no business to make him feel like that--a wife and a husband being

one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he

wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was

hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her--yes, and with

an ache in his heart--that she should sit there, looking--looking as if

she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man

get up and leave the table.

The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms--Soames

liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling

of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were

contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined

at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin

made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.

Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep

tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and

quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the

woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who,

competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and

Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that

he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not,

as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very

secrets of her heart.