Mr. Britt had continued to be a consistent mourner, according to the old-fashioned conventions.

When he arose in the dawn of the day with which the tale begins and unwound a towel from his jowls—­for the new Magnetic Hair Restorer had an ambitious way of touching up the pillow-slip with color—­he beheld a memento, composed of assembled objects, “sacred to the memory of Mehitable.”  In a frame, under glass, on black velvet were these items:  silver plate from casket, hair switch, tumbler and spoon with which the last medicine had been administered, wedding ring and marriage certificate; photograph in center.  The satirists had their comment for that memento—­they averred that it was not complete without the two dish towels to which Hittie had been limited.

Mr. Britt inspected the memento and sighed; that was before he had touched up his beard with a patent dye comb.

After he had set the scratch wig on his glossy poll and had studied himself in the mirror he looked more cheerful and pulled a snapshot photograph from a bureau drawer, gazed on it and sighed again.  It was the picture of a girl, a full-length view of a mighty pretty girl whose smiling face was backed by an open sunshade.  She was in white garb and wore no hat.

“Vona,” said Mr. Britt, talking out as if the sound of his voice fortified his faith, “you’re going to see this thing in the right way, give you time.  I’m starting late—­but I’m blasted wide awake from now on.  I have gone after money, but money ain’t everything.  I reckon that by to-night I can show you honors that you’ll share with me—­they’ve been waiting for me, and now I’ll reach out and take ’em for your sake.  Hittie didn’t know what to do with money—­honors would have bothered her.  But with a girl like you I can grab in and relish living for the rest of this life.”

Then Mr. Britt went over to the tavern to get his breakfast.

By eating his three meals per day at the tavern he was indulging his new sense of liberty.  He and Hittie always used to eat in the kitchen—­meals on the dot, as to time.  The tavern was little and dingy, and Egypt was off the railroad line, and there were few patrons, and old Files cut his steak very close to the critter’s horn.  But after the years of routine at a home table there was a sort of clubman, devil-may-care suggestion about this new regime at the tavern; and after his meals Britt sat in the tavern office and smoked a cigar.  Furthermore, he held a mortgage on the tavern and Files was behind on the interest and was eagerly and humbly glad to pay his creditor with food.  In order to impress a peddler or other transient guest the creditor was in the habit of calling in Files and ordering him to recook portions.

In his new sense of expansion as a magnate, Tasper Britt took his time about eating and allowed men with whom he had dealings to come into the dining room and sit down opposite and state their cases.