"Who cares?" June cried; "let him do what he likes--you've only to
stick to it!" And she had not scrupled to say something of this sort at
Timothy's; James, when he heard of it, had felt a natural indignation
and horror.
What if Irene were to take it into her head to--he could hardly frame
the thought--to leave Soames? But he felt this thought so unbearable
that he at once put it away; the shady visions it conjured up, the sound
of family tongues buzzing in his ears, the horror of the conspicuous
happening so close to him, to one of his own children! Luckily, she had
no money--a beggarly fifty pound a year! And he thought of the deceased
Heron, who had had nothing to leave her, with contempt. Brooding over
his glass, his long legs twisted under the table, he quite omitted
to rise when the ladies left the room. He would have to speak to
Soames--would have to put him on his guard; they could not go on like
this, now that such a contingency had occurred to him. And he noticed
with sour disfavour that June had left her wine-glasses full of wine.
'That little, thing's at the bottom of it all,' he mused; 'Irene'd never
have thought of it herself.' James was a man of imagination.
The voice of Swithin roused him from his reverie.
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