"There you are! Dartie's gone to Buenos Aires."
Soames nodded. "That's all right," he said; "good riddance."
A wave of assuagement passed over James' brain. Soames knew. Soames was
the only one of them all who had sense. Why couldn't he come and live at
home? He had no son of his own. And he said plaintively:
"At my age I get nervous. I wish you were more at home, my boy."
Again Soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no
understanding, but he went closer, and as if by accident touched his
father's shoulder.
"They sent their love to you at Timothy's," he said. "It went off all
right. I've been to see Winifred. I'm going to take steps." And he
thought: 'Yes, and you mustn't hear of them.'
James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat
between the points of his collar looked very gristly and naked.
"I've been very poorly all day," he said; "they never tell me anything."
Soames' heart twitched.
"Well, it's all right. There's nothing to worry about. Will you come up
now?" and he put his hand under his father's arm.
James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they went
slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the firelight, and out
to the stairs. Very slowly they ascended.
"Good-night, my boy," said James at his bedroom door.
"Good-night, father," answered Soames. His hand stroked down the sleeve
beneath the shawl; it seemed to have almost nothing in it, so thin was
the arm. And, turning away from the light in the opening doorway, he
went up the extra flight to his own bedroom.
'I want a son,' he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; 'I want a
son.'