As she drew near the church, she saw that several taxis were stopping, as well as two long black limousines; already a steady flow of people, nearly half an hour before the time, hurried in, and then, under the spell of the tolling bell, automatically slowed down as they turned into the path. A very old lady was being helped out of her car by a chauffeur. Grace felt herself an absolute outsider, as if she were about to walk into a drawing room, unintroduced. Just then Mrs. Humphreys came and pressed her hand silently, then moved away. The hush from the church reached out and changed them, laid upon them a mask of false solemnity, she thought. And she hated it all, deciding there and then to add a codicil to her will: No funeral, ashes to be thrown to the wind.

The strength of this decision took her in through the wide-open red doors, to the hushing carpet, to the grave ushers and—thank God—Fosca, who came forward from the group of five or six distinguished men, all known to her (and she was glad to see that Professor Goldberg was one of them). Whatever the newspapers might say, the presence of these great men of Harvard appeased something in her heart, hungry for praise of Edward. Harvard at least would show its pride, was not ashamed to do so, and Grace Kimlock walked down the aisle, her head high. She slipped into a pew near the middle of the church, irritated by the soft music oozing from the organ. They might at least have played some Mozart, she thought.

Mrs. Brimmer knelt down beside her and began to pray. Grace Kimlock on the other hand sat up straight and looked around her with unashamed curiosity. She had to admit that the church looked beautiful. There were great bunches of autumn flowers on the sills of each of the long oval windows and at the altar nothing but white chrysanthemums. She put on her glasses—who was that rather frail young man Fosca was leading down to the front rows, while Goldberg preceded one of the deans? (The church was nearly full now and there were still fifteen minutes.) Warlock, she thought with satisfaction. That, she knew, would have pleased Edward. He had come all the way from New York to pay his respects. As well he might, for she knew how patiently Edward had gone over his last book with him, and how carefully later on he had reviewed it for The New Republic—how anxious to be just and helpful.