and said softly,
"How do you feel, James?" holding the thermometer to his lips. James
looked up at her.

"What's the good of that?" he murmured huskily; "I don't want to know."

Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly
frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had 'had trouble' with
him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James for nearly fifty
years; she couldn't remember or imagine life without James--James, behind
all his fussiness, his pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate,
really kind and generous to them all!

All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in his
eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his face which told
her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. His very stillness, the
way he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity with
which he was fighting. It touched her deeply; and though her face was
composed and comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when
she was out of it.

About tea-time on the third day--she had just changed her dress, keeping
her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed everything--she
saw a difference. 'It's no use; I'm tired,' was written plainly across
that white face, and when she went up to him, he muttered: "Send for
Soames."

"Yes, James," she said comfortably; "all right--at once." And she kissed
his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off she saw that
his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and without hope now, she sent
Soames the telegram.

When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as
a grave. Warmson's broad face looked almost narrow; he took the fur coat
with a sort of added care, saying:

"Will you have a glass of wine, sir?"

Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.

Warmson's lips twitched. "He's asking for you, sir;" and suddenly he
blew his nose. "It's a long time, sir," he said, "that I've been with
Mr. Forsyte--a long time."

Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. This
house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never seemed to him so
warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage to his father's
room. It was not his taste; but in its own substantial, lincrusta way it
was the acme of comfort and security. And the night was so dark and
windy; the grave so cold and lonely!

He paused outside the door. No sou