“I’ll put it over his heart instead,” said Upjohn.

“You’ve put it on his stomach,” remarked Philip.

Upjohn gave a thin smile.

“Only a poet knows where lies a poet’s heart,” he answered.

They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what arrangements he had made for the funeral.

“I hoped you’ve spared no expense.  I should like the hearse to be followed by a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long streamers on their hats.  I like the thought of all those empty coaches.”

“As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I’m not over flush just now, I’ve tried to make it as moderate as possible.”

“But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn’t you get him a pauper’s funeral?  There would have been something poetic in that.  You have an unerring instinct for mediocrity.”

Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn followed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered.  Lawson, unable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should not seem too neglected, had bought a couple.  On the way back the coachman whipped up his horses.  Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep.  He was awakened by Upjohn’s voice.

“It’s rather lucky the poems haven’t come out yet.  I think we’d better hold them back a bit and I’ll write a preface.  I began thinking of it during the drive to the cemetery.  I believe I can do something rather good.  Anyhow I’ll start with an article in The Saturday.”

Philip did not reply, and there was silence between them.  At last Upjohn said: 

“I daresay I’d be wiser not to whittle away my copy.  I think I’ll do an article for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as a preface.”

Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared.  The article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in many of the papers.  It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for no one knew much of Cronshaw’s early life, but delicate, tender, and picturesque.  Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little pictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry:  Cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard Upjohn’s coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made to transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a flowering orchard.  And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of Kennington!  Leonard Upjohn described Kennington