There was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion,
the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly
successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was really
not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have
expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of
how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a
'strong,' husband, that he never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by
the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in
himself.
But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before
seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual
which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the
maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When she had
left the room, he filled his glass with wine and said:
"Anybody been here this afternoon?"
"June."
"What did she want?" It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did
not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "Came to talk about her
lover, I suppose?"
Irene made no reply.
"It looks to me," continued Soames, "as if she were sweeter on him than
he is on her.
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