It was so purely a matter which Bosinney
could remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen ways in which he could
cheapen the production of a house without spoiling the effect.
He awaited, therefore, his opportunity till Irene was handing the
architect his first cup of tea. A chink of sunshine through the lace of
the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her hair, and in her
soft eyes. Possibly the same gleam deepened Bosinney's colour, gave the
rather startled look to his face.
Soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. Then he
took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more coldly than he had
intended:
"Can't you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? There
must be a lot of little things you could alter."
Bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and answered:
"Not one!"
Soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible point of
personal vanity.
"Well," he agreed, with sulky resignation; "you must have it your own
way, I suppose."
A few minutes later Bosinney rose to go, and Soames rose too, to see him
off the premises. The architect seemed in absurdly high spirits. After
watching him walk away at a swinging pace, Soames returned moodily to
the drawing-room, where Irene was putting away the music, and, moved by
an uncontrollable spasm of curiosity, he asked:
"Well, what do you think of 'The Buccaneer'?"
He looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had to wait
some time.
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