The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

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.