They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and dusting, in catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last beetle so as to leave it nice, discussing with each other what they would buy at the sale.  Miss Ann’s workbox; Miss Juley’s (that is Mrs. Julia’s) seaweed album; the fire-screen Miss Hester had crewelled; and Mr. Timothy’s hair—­little golden curls, glued into a black frame.  Oh! they must have those—­only the price of things had gone up so!

It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral.  He had them drawn up by Gradman in his office—­only blood relations, and no flowers.  Six carriages were ordered.  The Will would be read afterward at the house.

He arrived at eleven o’clock to see that all was ready.  At a quarter past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat.  He and Soames stood in the drawing-room waiting.  At half-past eleven the carriages drew up in a long row.  But no one else appeared.  Gradman said: 

“It surprises me, Mr. Soames.  I posted them myself.”

“I don’t know,” said Soames; “he’d lost touch with the family.”  Soames had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly his family were to the dead than to the living.  But, now, the way they had flocked to Fleur’s wedding and abstained from Timothy’s funeral, seemed to show some vital change.  There might, of course, be another reason; for Soames felt that if he had not known the contents of Timothy’s Will, he might have stayed away himself through delicacy.  Timothy had left a lot of money, with nobody in particular to leave it to.  They mightn’t like to seem to expect something.

At twelve o’clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in the first carriage under glass.  Then Soames alone; then Gradman alone; then Cook and Smither together.  They started at a walk, but were soon trotting under a bright sky.  At the entrance to Highgate Cemetery they were delayed by service in the Chapel.  Soames would have liked to stay outside in the sunshine.  He didn’t believe a word of it; on the other hand, it was a form of insurance which could not safely be neglected, in case there might be something in it after all.

They walked up two and two—­he and Gradman, Cook and Smither—­to the family vault.  It was not very distinguished for the funeral of the last old Forsyte.

He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater Road with a certain glow in his heart.  He had a surprise in pickle for the old chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years-a treat that was entirely his doing.  How well he remembered saying to Timothy the day—­after Aunt Hester’s funeral:  “Well; Uncle Timothy, there’s Gradman.  He’s taken a lot of trouble for the family.  What do you say to leaving him five thousand?” and his surprise, seeing the difficulty there had been in getting Timothy to leave anything, when Timothy had nodded.  And now the old chap