"You don't seem to care about going about. Why don't you drive down to
Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then. At your time of
life you ought to take an interest in things. You're a young woman!"
The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous.
"Well, I know nothing about it," he said; "nobody tells me anything.
Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If he can't take care
of himself he mustn't look to me--that's all."
Biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look at his
daughter-in-law.
He encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that he
stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration.
"Well, I must be going," he said after a short pause, and a minute later
rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as though he had expected
to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to Irene, he allowed himself to be
conducted to the door, and let out into the street. He would not have a
cab, he would walk, Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and
if she wanted a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond
any day.
He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first sleep
she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it was his
impression things were in a bad way at Soames's; on this theme he
descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that he would not
sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly began to snore.
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