On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house⁠—“quite individual, my dear⁠—really elegant”⁠—Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: “The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays⁠—they’ve nothing to do but play the concertina.”

The custom had produced no revolution. For⁠—to Soames a rather deplorable sign⁠—servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.

The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth⁠—a distinguishing elegance⁠—and so far had not spoken a word.