"It'll be a scandal," muttered James, as if to himself; "but I can't
help that. Don't brush so hard. When'll it come on?"
"Before the Long Vacation; it's not defended."
James' lips moved in secret calculation. "I shan't live to see my
grandson," he muttered.
Emily ceased brushing. "Of course you will, James. Soames will be as
quick as he can."
There was a long silence, till James reached out his arm.
"Here! let's have the eau-de-Cologne," and, putting it to his nose, he
moved his forehead in the direction of his son. Soames bent over and
kissed that brow just where the hair began. A relaxing quiver passed
over James' face, as though the wheels of anxiety within were running
down.
"I'll get to bed," he said; "I shan't want to see the papers when that
comes. They're a morbid lot; I can't pay attention to them, I'm too
old."
Queerly affected, Soames went to the door; he heard his father say:
"Here, I'm tired. I'll say a prayer in bed."
And his mother answering
"That's right, James; it'll be ever so much more comfy."