“Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, while he was fighting.⁠ ⁠…”

“He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s being slowly smothered. It’s awful.”

James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands, and Soames took them.

“He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse.

Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of anger passed over James’ face. The nurse plumped the pillows. Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father’s forehead. As he was raising himself again, James’ eyes bent on him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was left within. “I’m done, my boy,” it seemed to say, “take care of them, take care of yourself; take care⁠—I leave it all to you.”

“Yes, Yes,” Soames whispered, “yes, yes.”