“Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right—­at once.”  And she kissed his forehead.  A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off she saw that his eyes looked grateful.  Much upset, and without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram.

When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as a grave.  Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying: 

“Will you have a glass of wine, sir?”

Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.

Warmson’s lips twitched.  “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly he blew his nose.  “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve been with Mr. Forsyte—­a long time.”

Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs.  This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage to his father’s room.  It was not his taste; but in its own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and security.  And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold and lonely!

He paused outside the door.  No sound came from within.  He turned the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived.  The light was shaded.  His mother and Winifred were sitting on the far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side where was an empty chair.  ‘For me!’ thought Soames.  As he moved from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his hand and they sat down again.  He went up to the chair and stood looking at his father.  James’ breathing was as if strangled; his eyes were closed.  And in Soames, looking on his father so worn and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel, inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body, slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the being who was dearest to him in the world.  His father, of all men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was his reward—­to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him!  And, without knowing that he spoke, he said:  “It’s cruel!”

He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face towards the bed.  Women!  They put up with things so much better than men.  He took a step nearer to his father.  For three days James had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead.  It softened his face, gave it a queer look already not of this world.  His eyes opened.  Soames went quite close and bent over.  The lips moved.

“Here I am, Father:” 

“Um—­what—­what news?  They never tell....” the voice died, and a flood of emotion made Soames’ face work so that he could not speak.  Tell him?—­yes.  But what?  He made a great effort, got his lips together, and said: