What on earth was he afraid of?  The service couldn’t last for ever, and he had barred speeches at the Collation (as Mrs. Mangan insisted on calling it).  His thoughts took a twist.  Surely he wasn’t afraid of the Mangans?  He liked Mrs. Mangan; he was quite fond of her, quite a good sort of mother-in-law she’d make.  And Barty, his best man, good old Barty!  And the Doctor—­Of course he wasn’t afraid of the Doctor either.  He had always liked him.  There only remained Tishy.  Hang it all!  He wasn’t afraid of the girl he was going to marry!  She might have a bit of a temper—­she certainly had been rather rattled these last few days, but you couldn’t blame her for that.  The very last time he had seen her—­the evening before the big storm began, wasn’t it?—­he had overtaken her in the dark in the Mall, going home after shopping, and that long-legged cad of a fellow, Cloherty, carrying her parcels for her.  By Jove!  She had let drive at him after Cloherty had gone and they were in the house!  By Jove, yes!  He laughed a little at the remembrance.  She had said it was a nice time of day for him to be coming over.  She had jolly nearly cried, she was so mad with him.  For the life of him he didn’t know why.  But, after all, that wasn’t exactly temper.—­Blowed if he knew what it was.  He supposed it was temperament—­quite a different thing!  He laughed and had a look at a large and splendid photograph of Miss Mangan, that had been a sort of corollary of the Dublin trousseau.  Tishy was all right.  Tishy was a topper!  He said it aloud, and, with that, another tune, the old nigger-tune, “Nelly was a Lady,” fitted itself absurdly to the words.

“Tishy was a topper!” he sang.  “Last night she—­No, she didn’t!  By Jove, there’s the motor!  What’s it coming at this hour for?”

He watched the car turn into the wide sweep in front of the house, and wheel round it, and draw up at the foot of the hall-door steps.  It looked like the car he had hired, he knew the shover’s face, but there was someone in it.  He saw, with pleasure, that it was Barty who was in the car.  Good old Barty, come over early to buck him up a bit.  Larry sprang to the door, and as he opened it, Barty was coming up the steps.  He stood still on the top step.  He was very pale, Barty always had a pasty face, Larry thought, but this whiteness was different, and there was a look in his eyes that made Larry, over-strung, tuned to vibrate to ill tidings, catch his arm, and say: 

“What is it?  Tell me quick!”

Barty did not answer at once.  He seemed as if he could not speak.  He came into the hall and shut the door behind him and leaned against it, one hand still on the handle, his breath coming short and fast.

“My father was drowned last night!” he said at last, in a low, hurried voice.  “He drove into the river.  The flood was up on the road.  Wait, Larry!  That isn’t all—­” he went on quickly, holding up his other hand to keep Larry from speaking.  “That’s bad enough, God knows!  But this other thing is Disgrace!”