“Uncle Timothy,” he said again, “is there anything I can do for you?  Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“Ha!” said Timothy.

“I’ve come to look you up and see that everything’s all right.”

Timothy nodded.  He seemed trying to get used to the apparition before him.

“Have you got everything you want?”

“No,” said Timothy.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No,” said Timothy.

“I’m Soames, you know; your nephew, Soames Forsyte.  Your brother James’ son.”

Timothy nodded.

“I shall be delighted to do anything I can for you.”

Timothy beckoned.  Soames went close to him: 

“You—­” said Timothy in a voice which seemed to have outlived tone, “you tell them all from me—­you tell them all—­” and his finger tapped on Soames’ arm, “to hold on—­hold on—­Consols are goin’ up,” and he nodded thrice.

“All right!” said Soames; “I will.”

“Yes,” said Timothy, and, fixing his eyes again on the ceiling, he added:  “That fly!”

Strangely moved, Soames looked at the Cook’s pleasant fattish face, all little puckers from staring at fires.

“That’ll do him a world of good, sir,” she said.

A mutter came from Timothy, but he was clearly speaking to himself, and Soames went out with the cook.

“I wish I could make you a pink cream, Mr. Soames, like in old days; you did so relish them.  Good-bye, sir; it has been a pleasure.”

“Take care of him, Cook, he is old.”

And, shaking her crumpled hand, he went down-stairs.  Smither was still taking the air in the doorway.

“What do you think of him, Mr. Soames?”

“H’m!” Soames murmured:  “He’s lost touch.”

“Yes,” said Smither, “I was afraid you’d think that coming fresh out of the world to see him like.”

“Smither,” said Soames, “we’re all indebted to you.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Soames, don’t say that!  It’s a pleasure—­he’s such a wonderful man.”

“Well, good-bye!” said Soames, and got into his taxi.

‘Going up!’ he thought; ‘going up!’

Reaching the hotel at Knightsbridge he went to their sitting-room, and rang for tea.  Neither of them were in.  And again that sense of loneliness came over him.  These hotels.  What monstrous great places they were now!  He could remember when there was nothing bigger than Long’s or Brown’s, Morley’s or the Tavistock, and the heads that were shaken over the Langham and the Grand.  Hotels and Clubs—­Clubs and Hotels; no end to them now!  And Soames, who had just been watching at Lord’s a miracle of tradition and continuity, fell into reverie over the changes in that London where he had been born five-and-sixty years before.  Whether Consols were going up or not, London had become a terrific property.  No such property in the world, unless it were New York!  There was a lot of hysteria in the papers