The doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. 'If they were
all as unemotional' he might have been saying.
"Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You'll be down soon?"
"To-morrow," said Soames. "Here's the address."
The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.
"Good-night!" said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on his fur
coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a cigarette in the
carriage--one of his rare cigarettes. The night was windy and flew on
black wings; the carriage lights had to search out the way. His father!
That old, old man! A comfortless night--to die!
The London train came in just as he reached the station, and Madame
Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the lamplight, came
towards the exit with a dressing-bag.
"This all you have?" asked Soames.
"But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?"
"Doing well--both. A girl!"
"A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!"
Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into
the brougham.
"And you, mon cher?"
"My father's dying," said Soames between his teeth. "I'm going up. Give
my love to Annette."
"Tiens!" murmured Madame Lamotte; "quel malheur!"
Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. 'The French!' he
thought.