“I want to say something. Your mother hasn’t heard.” He announced Emily’s ignorance of what he hadn’t told her, as if it were a grievance.
“Your father’s been in a great state all the evening. I’m sure I don’t know what about.”
The faint “whisk-whisk” of the brushes continued the soothing of her voice.
“No! you know nothing,” said James. “Soames can tell me.” And, fixing his grey eyes, in which there was a look of strain, uncomfortable to watch, on his son, he muttered:
“I’m getting on, Soames. At my age I can’t tell. I might die any time. There’ll be a lot of money. There’s Rachel and Cicely got no children; and Val’s out there—that chap his father will get hold of all he can. And somebody’ll pick up Imogen, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Soames listened vaguely—he had heard all this before. Whish-whish! went the brushes.
“If that’s all!” said Emily.
“All!” cried James; “it’s nothing. I’m coming to that.” And again his eyes strained pitifully at Soames.
“It’s you, my boy,” he said suddenly; “you ought to get a divorce.”
That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soames’ composure. His eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on the buttonhook, and as if in apology James hurried on: