“I was doing something for Michael.”

“Is it done?”

“Yes.  It’s done.”

* * * * *

Five months passed.  It was November now.

In the lane by the side door, Anthony was waiting in his car.  Rain was falling, hanging from the trees and falling.  Every now and then he looked at his watch.

He had still a quarter of an hour before he need start.  But he was not going back into the house.  They were all in there saying good-bye to John:  old Mrs. Fleming, and Louie and Emmeline and Edith.  And Maurice.  And his brother Bartie.

The door in the garden wall opened and they came out:  the four women in black—­the black they still wore for Michael—­and the two men.

They all walked slowly up the lane.  Anthony could see Bartie’s shoulders hunched irritably against the rain.  He could see Morrie carrying his sodden, quivering body with care and an exaggerated sobriety.  He saw Grannie, going slowly, under the umbrella, very upright and conscious of herself as wonderful and outlasting.

He got down and cranked up his engine.

Then he sat sternly in his car and waited, with his hands on the steering-wheel, ready.

The engine throbbed, impatient for the start.

John came out very quickly and took his seat beside his father.  And the car went slowly towards the high road.

Uncle Morrie stood waiting for it by the gate at the top of the lane.  As it passed through he straightened himself and put up his hand in a crapulous salute.

The young man smiled at him, saluted, and was gone