family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced. It was
known on Forsyte 'Change that Irene regretted her marriage. Her regret
was disapproved of. She ought to have known her own mind; no dependable
woman made these mistakes.

James reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) in
an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles. Soames was
reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a very warm man. He
had a capital income from the business--for Soames, like his father,
was a member of that well-known firm of solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard and
Forsyte--and had always been very careful. He had done quite unusually
well with some mortgages he had taken up, too--a little timely
foreclosure--most lucky hits!

There was no reason why Irene should not be happy, yet they said she'd
been asking for a separate room. He knew where that ended. It wasn't as
if Soames drank.

James looked at his daughter-in-law. That unseen glance of his was
cold and dubious. Appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of personal
grievance. Why should he be worried like this? It was very likely all
nonsense; women were funny things! They exaggerated so, you didn't know
what to believe; and then, nobody told him anything, he had to find out
everything for himself. Again he looked furtively at Irene, and across
from her to Soames. The latter, listening to Aunt Juley, was looking up,
under his brows in the direction of Bosinney.

'He's fond of her, I know,' thought James. 'Look at the way he's always
giving her things.'

And the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck him
with increased force.

It was a pity, too, she was a taking little thing, and he, James, would
be really quite fond of her if she'd only let him. She had taken up
lately with June; that was doing her no good, that was certainly doing
her no good. She was getting to have opinions of her own. He didn't
know what she wanted with anything of the sort. She'd a good home, and
everything she could wish for. He felt that her friends ought to be
chosen for her. To go on like this was dangerous.

June, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had dragged
from Irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the necessity of
facing the evil, by separation, if need be. But in the face of these
exhortations, Irene had kept a brooding silence, as though she found
terrible the thought of this struggle carried through in cold blo