Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along to lay out the corpse.  Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn.

Shocked and grieved beyond measure.  Regret cannot come tonight.  Dining out.  With you early tomorrow.  Deepest sympathy.  Upjohn.

In a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room.

“I’ve done now, sir.  Will you come and look at ’im and see it’s all right?”

Philip followed her.  Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his chest.

“You ought by rights to ’ave a few flowers, sir.”

“I’ll get some tomorrow.”

She gave the body a glance of satisfaction.  She had performed her job, and now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her bonnet.  Philip asked her how much he owed her.

“Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five shillings.”

Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum.  She thanked him with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he might be supposed to feel, and left him.  Philip went back into his sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read Walsham’s Surgery.  He found it difficult.  He felt singularly nervous.  When there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat violently.  That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now was nothing, frightened him.  The silence seemed alive, as if some mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying:  Philip felt a sudden horror for what had once been his friend.  He tried to force himself to read, but presently pushed away his book in despair.  What troubled him was the absolute futility of the life which had just ended.  It did not matter if Cronshaw was alive or dead.  It would have been just as well if he had never lived.  Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair on his head, buoyant and hopeful.  Philip’s rule of life, to follow one’s instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted very well there:  it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence.  It seemed that the instincts could not be trusted.  Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather than in another.  They acted according to their emotions, but their emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to triumph or disaster.  Life seemed an inextricable confusion.  Men hurried hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying’s sake.

Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel.  He was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding Philip’s disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath fitted grotesquely.  It looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-hall.