The silence was only broken now by the supping of James's soup.
The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped him.
"That's not the way to serve port," he said; "take them away, and bring
the bottle."
Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his
rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts.
"Your mother's in bed," he said; "you can have the carriage to take you
down. I should think Irene'd like the drive. This young Bosinney'll be
there, I suppose, to show you over."
Soames nodded.
"I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he's made
finishing off," pursued James. "I'll just drive round and pick you both
up."
"I am going down by train," replied Soames. "If you like to drive round
and see, Irene might go with you, I can't tell."
He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid.
They parted at St. Paul's, Soames branching off to the station, James
taking his omnibus westwards.
He had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long legs
made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who passed him he
looked resentfully, as if they had no business to be using up his air.
He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to Irene.
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