The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

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!"