He mounted slowly, with the thought: 'Shan't care to live to be that age.'
On the second floor, he paused, and tapped. The door was opened, and he saw the round homely face of a woman about sixty.
“Mr. Soames!” she said: “Why! Mr. Soames!”
Soames nodded. “All right, Cook!” and entered.
Timothy was propped up in bed, with his hands joined before his chest, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where a fly was standing upside down. Soames stood at the foot of the bed, facing him.
“Uncle Timothy,” he said, raising his voice. “Uncle Timothy!”
Timothy's eyes left the fly, and levelled themselves on his visitor. Soames could see his pale tongue passing over his darkish lips.
“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.”