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 blood. He
would never give her up, she had said to June.
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