d the affection of his wife. Even in
those cases--a class of book he was not very fond of--which ended in
tragedy, the wife always died with poignant regrets on her lips, or if it
were the husband who died--unpleasant thought--threw herself on his body
in an agony of remorse.

He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the modern
Society Plays with the modern Society conjugal problem, so fortunately
different from any conjugal problem in real life. He found that they too
always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case.
While he was watching the play Soames often sympathized with the lover;
but before he reached home again, driving with Irene in a hansom, he saw
that this would not do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had.
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. She's always following him about."

Irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable.

"You've no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed.

"Why not? Anybody can see it."

"They cannot. And if they could, it's disgraceful to say so."

Soames's composure gave way.

"You're a pretty wife!" he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of
her reply; it was unlike her. "You're cracked about June! I can tell
you one thing: now that she has