As Toombs was going out he met Mr. Banger at the door.  When he was gone, Banger said,

“My dear, who is that very odd-looking man?”

And Mrs. Banger hesitated a moment, turned very red, and answered,

“That is—­that man is—­a—­a—­he is, I believe—­a—­a—­a—­a some kind of a—­an undertaker.”

Then Banger looked gloomy and went up stairs to ponder.  But Mrs. Banger felt that she had a duty to perform in taking care that the lot in the cemetery should not fall into such disorder as Mr. Toombs had indicated, and she resolved to call upon Mr. Mix, at his monumental marble-works, to get him to attend to the matter for her.  Mr. Mix did not know her, and his ignorance of her past history turned out to be unfortunate.  The following conversation occurred between them: 

Mrs. Banger.  “Mr. Mix, I am anxious to have my cemetery lot fixed up—­to put in new tombstones and reset the railing; and I called to see if I could make some satisfactory arrangement with you.”

Mix.  “Certainly, madam.  Tell me precisely what it is you want done.”

Mrs. B.  “Well, I’d like to have a new tombstone put over the grave of John—­my husband, you know—­and to have a nice inscription cut in it, ‘Here lies John Smyth,’ etc., etc.  You know what I mean; the usual way, of course, and maybe some kind of a design on the stone like a broken rosebud or something.”

Mix.  “I understand.”

Mrs. B.  “Well, then, what’ll you charge me for getting up a headstone just like that, out of pretty good white marble, and with a little picture of a torch upside down or a weeping angel on it, and the name of Thomas Smith cut on it?”

Mix.  “John Smyth, you mean.”

Mrs. B.  “No, I mean Thomas.”

Mix.  “But you said John before.”

Mrs. B.  “I know, but that was my first husband, and Thomas was my second, and I want a new headstone for each of them.  Now, it seems to me, Mr. Mix, that where a person is buying more than one, that way, you ought to make some reduction in the price—­throw something off.  Though, of course, I want a pretty good article at all the graves.  Not anything gorgeous, but neat and tasteful and calculated to please the eye.  Mr. Smyth was not a man who was fond of show.  Give him a thing comfortable, and he was satisfied.  Now, which do you think is the prettiest, to have the name in raised letters in a straight line over the top of the stone, or just to cut the words ‘Alexander P. Smyth’ in a kind of a semicircle in sunken letters?”

Mix.  “Did I understand you to say Alexander P.?  Were you referring to John or Thomas?”

Mrs. B.  “Of course not.  Aleck was my third.  I’m not going to neglect his grave while I’m fixing up the rest.  I wish to make a complete job of it, Mr. Mix, while I am about it, and I’m willing for you to undertake it if you are reasonable in your charges.  Now, what’ll you ask me for the lot, the kind I’ve described, plain but substantial, and sunk about two feet I should think, at the head of each grave?  What’ll you charge me for them—­for the whole four?”