“That’s from the Squire,” he said.  He spoke in a low voice as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite at home.  “I expect tea is ready.”

They went down again to the dining-room.  The drawn blinds gave a lugubrious aspect.  The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony.  Philip could not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his uncle’s appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual heartiness.  They did not speak for a while.  Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent.

“Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,” said the Vicar presently.  “In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats.  Poor Louisa used to make the silk into dresses.  She always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress.”

Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily.  Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.

“I shall take the funeral myself.  I promised Louisa I would never let anyone else bury her.”

Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake.  Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.

“Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes.  I’m afraid no one else will make such good ones.”

“She’s not going?” cried Philip, with astonishment.

Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember.  She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching.  He had a real affection for her.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Carey.  “I didn’t think it would do to have a single woman in the house.”

“But, good heavens, she must be over forty.”

“Yes, I think she is.  But she’s been rather troublesome lately, she’s been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice.”

“It’s certainly one which isn’t likely to recur,” said Philip.

He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it.

“Not till after the funeral, Philip,” he said gently.

“All right,” said Philip.

“It wouldn’t be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs.”

Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral.  The blinds had been drawn up, and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief.  The body in the house had made him uncomfortable:  in life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful influence.  The thought horrified Philip.