Here you were served by hairy English
waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round
gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only
recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your
chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours,
like a gentleman.
He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his
waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the
West End. He felt that he should relish his soup--the entire morning had
been given to winding up the estate of an old friend.
After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began:
"How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You'd
better take her. I should think there'll be a lot that'll want seeing
to."
Without looking up, Soames answered: "She won't go."
"Won't go? What's the meaning of that? She's going to live in the house,
isn't she?"
Soames made no reply.
"I don't know what's coming to women nowadays," mumbled James; "I never
used to have any trouble with them. She's had too much liberty. She's
spoiled...."
Soames lifted his eyes: "I won't have anything said against her," he
said unexpectedly.
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