James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirtsleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife’s bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. He⁠—he himself had never⁠—never been asked to.⁠ ⁠…

He heard his father’s voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying: “Who’s that? Who’s there? What d’you want?” His mother’s: “Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master’ll never get done.”

He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely:

“It’s I⁠—Soames!”

He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily’s: “Well, my dear boy?” and James’, as he dropped the hook: “What, Soames! What’s brought you up? Aren’t you well?”

He answered mechanically: “I’m all right,” and looked at them, and it seemed impossible to bring out his news.

James, quick to take alarm, began: “You don’t look well. I expect you’ve taken a chill⁠—it’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder. Your mother’ll give you.⁠ ⁠…”

But Emily broke in quietly: “Have you brought Irene?”

Soames shook his head.

“No,” he stammered, “she⁠—she’s left me!”

Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she came running over to Soames.

“My dear boy! My dear boy!”

She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand.