The faint 'whisk-whisk'of the brushes continued the soothing of her voice.

"No!you know nothing,"said James."Soames can tell me."And,fixing his grey eyes,in which there was a look of strain,uncomfortable to watch,on his son,he muttered:

"I'm getting on,Soames.At my age I can't tell.I might die any time.There'll be a lot of money.There's Rachel and Cicely got no children;and Val's out there--that chap his father will get hold of all he can.And somebody'll pick up Imogen,I shouldn't wonder."Soames listened vaguely--he had heard all this before.Whish-whish!went the brushes.

"If that's all!"said Emily.

"All!"cried James;"it's nothing.I'm coming to that."And again his eyes strained pitifully at Soames.

"It's you,my boy,"he said suddenly;"you ought to get a divorce."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 button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the dressing-table coverlet.

"The name?"said Emily,"there are all the other Forsytes.""As if that helped me,"muttered James."I shall be in my grave,and there'll be nobody,unless he marries again.""You're quite right,"said Soames quietly;"I'm getting a divorce."James'eyes almost started from his head.

"What?"he cried."There!nobody tells me anything.""Well,"said Emily,"who would have imagined you wanted it?My dear boy,that is a surprise,after all these years.""It'll be a scandal,"muttered James,as if to himself;"but Ican't help that.Don't brush so hard.When'll it come on?""Before the Long Vacation;it's not defended."James'lips moved in secret calculation."I shan't live to see my grandson,"he muttered.

Emily ceased brushing."Of course you will,James.Soames will be as quick as he can."There was a long silence,till James reached out his arm.

"Here!let's have the eau-de-Cologne,"and,putting it to his nose,he moved his forehead in the direction of his son.Soames bent over and kissed that brow just where the hair began.A relaxing quiver passed over James'face,as though the wheels of anxiety within were running down.

"I'll get to bed,"he said;"I shan't want to see the papers when that comes.They're a morbid lot;I can't pay attention to them,I'm too old."Queerly affected,Soames went to the door;he heard his father say:

"Here,I'm tired.I'll say a prayer in bed."And his mother answering "That's right,James;it'll be ever so much more comfy."