"Here he is!"he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured,and his mother's comfortable answer from the bedroom door:
"That's all right.Come in,and I'll brush your hair."James extended a thin,crooked finger,oddly like the beckoning of a skeleton,and passed through the doorway of his bedroom.
'What is it?'thought Soames.'What has he got hold of now?'
His father was sitting before the dressing-table sideways to the mirror,while Emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes through and through his hair.She would do this several times a day,for it had on him something of the effect produced on a cat by scratching between its ears.
"There you are!"he said."I've been waiting."Soames stroked his shoulder,and,taking up a silver button-hook,examined the mark on it.
"Well,"he said,"you're looking better."
James shook his head.
"I want to say something.Your mother hasn't heard."He announced Emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told her,as if it were a grievance.
"Your father's been in a great state all the evening.I'm sure Idon't know what about."