Mrs. Mel examined him with those eyes of hers that compassed objects in a single glance.  She drew her finger on each side of her upper lip, and half smiled, saying: 

‘That won’t do here.’

‘What?’ asked Evan, and proceeded immediately to make inquiries about her health, which she satisfied with a nod.

‘You saw him lowered, Van?’

‘Yes, mother.’

’Then go and wash yourself, for you are dirty, and then come and take your place at the head of the table.’

‘Must I sit here, mother?’

‘Without a doubt—­you must.  You know your room.  Quick!’

In this manner their first interview passed.

Mrs. Fiske rushed in to exclaim: 

’So, you were right, aunt—­he has come.  I met him on the stairs.  Oh! how like dear uncle Mel he looks, in the militia, with that moustache.  I just remember him as a child; and, oh, what a gentleman he is!’

At the end of the sentence Mrs. Mel’s face suddenly darkened:  she said, in a deep voice: 

‘Don’t dare to talk that nonsense before him, Ann.’

Mrs. Fiske looked astonished.

‘What have I done, aunt?’

‘He shan’t be ruined by a parcel of fools,’ said Mrs. Mel.  ’There, go!  Women have no place here.’

’How the wretches can force themselves to touch a morsel, after this morning!’ Mrs. Fiske exclaimed, glancing at the table.

‘Men must eat,’ said Mrs. Mel.

The mourners were heard gathering outside the door.  Mrs. Fiske escaped into the kitchen.  Mrs. Mel admitted them into the parlour, bowing much above the level of many of the heads that passed her.

Assembled were Messrs. Barnes, Kilne, and Grossby, whom we know; Mr. Doubleday, the ironmonger; Mr. Joyce, the grocer; Mr. Perkins, commonly called Lawyer Perkins; Mr. Welbeck, the pier-master of Lymport; Bartholomew Fiske; Mr. Coxwell, a Fallow field maltster, brewer, and farmer; creditors of various dimensions, all of them.  Mr. Goren coming last, behind his spectacles.

‘My son will be with you directly, to preside,’ said Mrs. Mel.  ’Accept my thanks for the respect you have shown my husband.  I wish you good morning.’

‘Morning, ma’am,’ answered several voices, and Mrs. Mel retired.

The mourners then set to work to relieve their hats of the appendages of crape.  An undertaker’s man took possession of the long black cloaks.  The gloves were generally pocketed.

‘That’s my second black pair this year,’ said Joyce.

’They’ll last a time to come.  I don’t need to buy gloves while neighbours pop off.’

‘Undertakers’ gloves seem to me as if they’re made for mutton fists,’ remarked Welbeck; upon which Kilne nudged Barnes, the butcher, with a sharp ‘Aha!’ and Barnes observed: 

’Oh!  I never wear ’em—­they does for my boys on Sundays.  I smoke a pipe at home.’

The Fallow field farmer held his length of crape aloft and inquired:  ‘What shall do with this?’