“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.”