Jay remembered the mouse they once caught, and kept in a bottle for a day, and the palace they made for it out of stones and mud and moss, and the sun-bath of patted mud they made by the door of the palace.  But the mouse, when it was installed, flashed straight out of the front door, and jumped the sun-bath, and knocked down a daisy, and was never seen again.  But Jay and Kew used to believe that on moonlit nights it came back to the palace, and brought its wife and children, and was grateful to the palace builders.

“A few days before he was killed,” said Mr. Morgan, “he told me that he had lied so successfully all his life that quite a lot of people thought him a most admirable young man.  He said Anonyma once brought him into a book, and when he read that book he saw how lying paid, as long as one didn’t lie to absolutely everybody.  He said if he died Anonyma would write something very nice upon his memorial brass about a pure heart or everlasting life, and he thought you would smile a little at that.  He said that he remembered going home with you in a ’bus and seeing on the window of the ’bus a text that promised everlasting life on certain conditions.  He said the remembrance of that text tired him still.  He said he had had too much of himself, he had known himself too well, and when death came, he wanted it to be an honest little death with no frills, and after that an everlasting sleep with no dreams.  I am putting it all in the wrong order.  I shall make you despise me.  You talk so well yourself.”

Jay was remembering the “Coos” they used to have in the big armchair in the nursery.  When they found that they suddenly loved each other unbearably, they had a Coo, they tied themselves up in a little tangle together, and sang Coo in soft voices.  And then they felt relieved.  Jay remembered the last Coo.  It happened when Kew’s voice was breaking ten years ago, and he found that he could no longer coo except in a funny falsetto.  So, rather than become farcical, the Coos ceased.

“I don’t know quite why Kew wanted me to tell you all this,” said Mr. Morgan, “except that he said you knew so much about him that you might as well get as near as possible to knowing everything.  He never thought he would be killed, in fact I gave him a lot of messages of my own to give to my mother in case I went.  But at the last, when he knew he was dying, he was desperately anxious you should know that he did not die a ‘Stranger’s death,’ as he said.  He thought any hint of drama about his death would spoil your friendship.  He said you knew more than most people about friends, and he thought that in this way you could find for him a certain ‘secret immortality’ which would make the soil of France comfier for him to sleep in.  And then he said, ’If I’m too poetic—­like a swan—­don’t report me too accurately.’  He seemed to go to sleep for some time after that, and every now and then he laughed very faintly in his sleep.  I had to leave him for a bit, and when I came back he was still asleep.  The only thing he said after that was:  ’This is awfully exciting.’  He said that about ten minutes before he died.  I hope I’m not making it too painful for you, dear little Jay.’”