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.