“‘Dear Philip,’ he wrote, ‘I hate to bother you about something as trivial as this, but the accounting department is refusing to reimburse me for some expenses on my recent trip to Europe. They seem particularly unhappy about a bill at Mirabelle’s restaurant in London that came to approximately two thousand three hundred dollars.’” He paused, and a few of the mourners began to laugh. “‘Between us, Philip, let me explain what happened. My guests on this occasion were two very senior members of the British Foreign Office and their wives. Because of their immense value to the newspaper over the years, I wanted to show them an especially good time. As always with the Brits, it was the wines that caused the problem. We had a good white Burgundy with the fish course, a Bâtard-Montrachet, I think. And a particularly good claret, a 1982 Léoville-Las-Cases. My guests suggested a Sauternes with dessert, and the inevitable bottle of port, and it all added up. I’m embarrassed that the final bill was so large, Philip, but I don’t have to tell you the importance of maintaining relationships like this. I wish it could be done inexpensively, but good journalism costs money. As ever, Arthur.’”

Sellinger stopped and smiled. By now the whole of the church was laughing. This was a side of Bowman people had gossiped about for years, but rarely discussed. “Here is my esteem for Arthur Bowman,” the publisher continued. “I took the expense form and wrote a note to the accounting department in the margin: ‘Charge this to publisher’s account. Mr. Bowman is worth every penny.’ I’m not sure anyone but me will ever know how profoundly true that was. My debt to him is incalculable. I miss him more than I can say.”

When Sellinger finished, we sang an old Anglican hymn—“Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away”—and there were some final prayers. They asked the pallbearers to come forward, and we carried Bowman’s coffin to the hearse outside. Ed Weiss took me by the arm after we had laid the coffin in the long black Cadillac and spoke in my ear. “It was like a torch being passed, watching you read that psalm,” he said. “That was my only consolation today.”

We turned back toward the church. It was a spring afternoon, and the air was soft and fragrant. Colleagues from the newsroom were coming toward me, to shake my hand. For the first time all day, I felt like crying. Not for Arthur, but for myself. Looking at this gathering of my dearest friends—all grieving over a man who, they devoutly believed in their hearts, represented the great traditions of our newspaper—I could not imagine ever telling them the truth, about Arthur or about me.