That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soames’ composure. His eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on the buttonhook, and as if in apology James hurried on:

“I don’t know what’s become of her⁠—they say she’s abroad. Your Uncle Swithin used to admire her⁠—he was a funny fellow.” (So he always alluded to his dead twin⁠—“The Stout and the Lean of it,” they had been called.) “She wouldn’t be alone, I should say.” And with that summing-up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird’s. Soames, too, was silent. Whish-whish went the brushes.

“Come, James! Soames knows best. It’s his business.”

“Ah!” said James, and the word came from deep down; “but there’s all my money, and there’s his⁠—who’s it to go to? And when he dies the name goes out.”

Soames replaced the buttonhook on the lace and pink silk of the dressing-table coverlet.