“Oh! yes, sir. You should see him take his bath—it's wonderful; he does enjoy it so.”
Those quite loud words gave Soames an insight. Timothy had resumed his babyhood.
“Does he take any interest in things generally?” he said, also loud.
“Oh! yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to see him turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now and then he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a slate for him—very large. Of course, I always write the same, what they were when he last took notice, in 1914. We got the doctor to forbid him to read the paper when the War broke out. Oh! he did take on about that at first. But he soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and he's a wonder to conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresses were alive, bless their hearts! How he did go on at them about that; they were always so active, if you remember, Mr. Soames.”
“What would happen if I were to go in?” asked Soames: “Would he remember me? I made his Will, you know, after Miss Hester died in 1907.”
“Oh! that, sir,” replied Smither doubtfully, “I couldn't take on me to say. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his age.”
Soames moved into the doorway, and waiting for Timothy to turn, said in a loud voice: “Uncle Timothy!”
Timothy trailed back half-way, and halted.
“Eh?” he said.
“Soames,” cried Soames at the top of his voice, holding out his hand, “Soames Forsyte!”