the walls to the verge of a circular clump
of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble
filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. He admired
extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side,
framing a huge white-tiled stove. The central partitions of the skylight
had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the
very heart of the house.

He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow
shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the
frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery.
Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a
gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they
were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending
in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black
oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on
throwing open doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order,
ready for immediate occupation.

He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing over in
the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney.

Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something
was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the
nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over.

"How are you, Mr. Bosinney?" he said, holding out his hand. "You've been
spending money pretty freely down here, I should say!"

Soames turned his back, and walked away.

James looked from Bosinney's frowning face to Irene, and, in his
agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: "Well, I can't tell what's the
matter. Nobody tells me anything!" And, making off after his son, he
heard Bosinney's short laugh, and his "Well, thank God! You look so...."
Most unfortunately he lost the rest.

What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the
architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He hastened up
to his son.

Soames was pacing the picture-gallery.

"What's the matter?" said James. "What's all this?"

Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but James knew
well enough that he was violently angry.

"Our friend," he said, "has exceeded his instructions again, that's all.
So much the worse for him this time."

He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed
hurriedly, edging himself