It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed
for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room. She was wearing her
gold-coloured frock--for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a
soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at home--and she had
adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on which James's eyes riveted
themselves at once.
"Where do you get your things?" he said in an aggravated voice. "I never
see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That rose-point, now--that's
not real!"
Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.
And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her deference,
of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No self-respecting
Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: He didn't know--he
expected she was spending a pretty penny on dress.
The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene took him
into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames's usual place, round the
corner on her left. The light fell softly there, so that he would not
be worried by the gradual dying of the day; and she began to talk to him
about himself.
Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that steals upon
a fruit in the sun; a sense of being caressed, and praised, and petted,
and all without the bestowal of a single caress or word of praise.
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