own greenhouse.  I must say everybody has been most kind, and there wasn’t a hitch in the arrangements.  I often think you have only to be in real trouble to know who your true friends are.  I’m sure the sympathy—­and the flowers—­you wouldn’t have known he was lying in his little coffin—­and Swinny—­that woman has feeling.  I saw her—­sobbing as if her heart would break.  We misjudged her, Molly, we did indeed.  Really, her devotion at the last—­”

At this point Molly turned her back on her mother and looked out of the window.  They were going up the village street now, and a hard tearless face was presented to a highly emotional group of spectators.  All Drayton Parva was alive to the fact that Mrs. Nevill Tyson was an unnatural mother.  “I’m sure the villagers did everything they could to show their respect.  There was Pinker’s father, and Ashby, at the gate—­with their hats off.  And for Baby—­poor little darling, if he only knew!  Well, it shows what they think of you and Nevill.  You’ve got mud on your skirt, dear—­off the wheel getting into the carriage.  Pinker should have been more careful.  How wise you were to get that good serge.  It’s everlasting.  At any rate it’ll last you as long as you want it.  Ah-h!  My poor child”—­she laid her hand on Mrs. Nevill Tyson’s averted shoulder—­“you’ll not fret, will you, now?  No—­you’re too brave, I know.  The more I think of it the more I feel that it’s all for the best.  Think—­if he’d lived to be older you’d have cared more, and it would have been harder then—­when he was running about and playing.  You can’t have the same feeling for a little baby.  And he was so delicate, too, you really couldn’t have wished it.  He had your father’s constitution.  And if you’d tried to teach him anything, he’d just have got water on the brain.  Ah-h-h-h!  Depend upon it, it’ll bring you and Nevill closer together.”

A white rosebud, dropped on the back seat, marked the place where the coffin had rested.  Mrs. Nevill Tyson picked it up and crushed it in her hand.

“Yes.  I know you’ve had your little tiffs lately.  Somebody said, ‘It’s blessings on the falling out that all the more endears.’  Who was it?  I don’t know how it goes on; I’ve such a head for poetry.  They kissed—­kissed—­kissed.  Whoever was it now?  Oh!  It was poor dear Mrs. Browning.  They kissed again—­with tears.  Ah!  Are you cold, love?”

“No—­no.”

“I thought you shivered.”

From Drayton parish church Thorneytoft is a long drive, and from beginning to end of it Mrs. Wilcox had never ceased talking.  At last they reached home.  The blinds were drawn up again in the front of the house; it was staring with all its windows.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson lingered till she saw her mother half-way upstairs, then she turned into the library.  The room was only used by Tyson; she would be certain to be alone there.

The silence sank into her brain like an anesthetic after torture.  She had closed the door before she realized that she was not alone.