The car stopped. They were in the cemetery; and Sophia and Francis, while getting out of the car under the eye of Uncle Preston, observed to their dismay a number of persons who were even more repulsive in appearance than Aunt Maxine, Uncle Preston and the cousins and sisters-in-law and things occupying the other cars. These were lurking uneasily among the tombstones.

Years of miserable family life had compelled Sophia, Harry and Francis to practise a method of communication which they fondly believed could not be observed by grown-up people.

It consisted in twisting the mouth as far on one side as it would go, and then talking through it. Harry said that this was how convicts talked to each other in prison; and Sophia’s comment had been that such a method was therefore peculiarly suited to use by the young Gardens.

It was this method which they now adopted, in discussing the tombstone lurkers.

‘My god,’ said Francis. ‘What are they? They look like troglodytes or something. Surely they can’t be relations?’

‘Must be. Or perhaps they’re patients? A lot of them sent wreaths. There was a lovely one from old Fanny.’

‘Oh well, she would. She’s been in love with Father for years. I saw her in the crowd round the surgery door when the coffin came out, roaring like a town bull. Oh lord, I’m so hungry.’

‘So am I. Never mind, darling; if we can get away together afterwards we’ll go off somewhere and have some food. I feel so queer; all unreal, as though I were looking at everything through a sheet of glass.’

‘That’s nerves,’ said Francis wisely. ‘My legs are trembling, and I feel sick.’

‘We are a pair, aren’t we? Never mind; we’ve got each other. I wish Harry were here.’

‘I don’t. He’d loathe it. He was fond of Father, you know.’

‘Shall we go to Celia’s party tonight? I know it seems awful to go to a party on the evening of your father’s funeral, but I’d rather like to; I feel so awful, and I want to forget about things and just not care about anything.’

‘I’ve got to get back to school. I’d rather – and besides, even if I stayed, Uncle Preston wouldn’t let me go to a party.’

‘Blast Uncle Preston.’

‘Shut up, he’s looking at us.’

Sophia stared at her prayer book during the ceremony in the little chapel, and did not look up until the great coffin was swaying out through the door on the shoulders of six men, and the mourners turned to follow it.

It held the body of a huge man, which had been full of a terrifying vitality and a pitiful weakness. It was buried in wreaths of dark red roses, violets, daffodils and carnations from a woman who had loved him and delicate stiff tulips. The sacrificial flowers at funerals are invariably called ‘beautiful flowers,’ as though flowers were not always beautiful, even on a coffin. But these flowers … Sophia fancied that their colours burned with triumphant life. They sprang from wreath, cross, spray, like transparent flames, as though drawing their strength from the great body in the coffin.