"What's the matter with me, eh?"
The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that
sounded like: "Nothing, sir, I'm sure, sir," and stealthily withdrew.
Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went
straight up to his mother's and father's bedroom.
James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure
displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head
bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white
Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips
pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife's bodice. Soames stopped;
he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or
for some other reason. He--he himself had never--never been asked to....
He heard his father's voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth,
saying: "Who's that? Who's there? What d'you want?" His mother's: "Here,
Felice, come and hook this; your master'll never get done."
He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely:
"It's I--Soames!"
He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily's: "Well, my
dear boy?" and James', as he dropped the hook: "What, Soames! What's
brought you up? Aren't you well?"
He answered mechanically: "I'm all right," and looked at them, and it
seemed impossible to bring out his news.
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