"Gravel soil," remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat
Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles
of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. Soames
noted these and other peculiarities.
No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such
liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were
revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as
evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. If the fellow
could build houses, what did his clothes matter?
"I told you," he said, "that I want this house to be a surprise, so
don't say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until they're
carried through."
Bosinney nodded.
"Let women into your plans," pursued Soames, "and you never know where
it'll end."
"Ah!" Said Bosinney, "women are the devil!"
This feeling had long been at the--bottom of Soames's heart; he had
never, however, put it into words.
"Oh!" he Muttered, "so you're beginning to...." He stopped, but added,
with an uncontrollable burst of spite: "June's got a temper of her
own--always had."
"A temper's not a bad thing in an angel."
Soames had never called Irene an angel.
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