"We just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into the cellar,

so that Cook and I could hear him if he rang. It would never have done

to let him know there was a war on. As I said to Cook, 'If Mr. Timothy

rings, they may do what they like--I'm going up. My dear mistresses

would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobody going to him.'

But he slept through them all beautiful. And the one in the daytime he

was having his bath. It was a mercy, because he might have noticed the

people in the street all looking up--he often looks out of the window."

"Quite!" murmured Soames. Smither was getting garrulous! "I just want to

look round and see if there's anything to be done."

"Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything except a smell of mice in the

dining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. It's funny they should

be there, and not a crumb, since Mr. Timothy took to not coming down,

just before the War. But they're nasty little things; you never know

where they'll take you next."

"Does he leave his bed?"--

"Oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window in

the morning, not to risk a change of air. And he's quite comfortable in

himself; has his Will out every day regular. It's a great consolation to

him--that."

"Well, Smither, I want to see him, if I can; in case he has anything to

say to me."

Smither coloured up above her corsets.

"It will be an occasion!" she said. "Shall I take you round the house,

sir, while I send Cook to break it to him?"

"No, you go to him," said Soames. "I can go round the house by myself."

One could not confess to sentiment before another, and Soames felt that

he was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so saturated

with the past. When Smither, creaking with excitement, had left him,

Soames entered the dining-room and sniffed. In his opinion it wasn't

mice, but incipient wood-rot, and he examined the panelling. Whether it

was worth a coat of paint, at Timothy's age, he was not sure. The room

had always been the most modern in the house; and only a faint smile

curled Soames' lips and nostrils. Walls of a rich green surmounted

the oak dado; a heavy metal chandelier hung by a chain from a ceiling

divided by imitation beams. The pictures had been bought by Timothy,

a bargain, one day at Jobson's sixty years ago--three Snyder "still

lifes," two faintly coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rather

charming, which bore the initials "J. R."--Timothy had always believed

they might turn out to be Joshua Reynolds, but Soames, who admired them,

had discovered that they were only John Robinson; and a doubtful Morland

of a white pony being shod. Deep-red plush curtains, ten high-backed

dark mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a Turkey carpet, and

a mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small, such was an

apartment which Soames could remember unchanged in soul or body since

he was four years old. He looked especially at the two drawings, and

thought: 'I shall buy those at the sale.'




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