eated 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!"

He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor did he
when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook him