Through the spaces in the thinned-out trees he could make out the tiered garden at the Colchesters’. It didn’t look as if anyone was home. The rosebushes had been bound with burlap, and hay was packed along the garden beds, ready for frost.

Mr. Eliot wore his good pants — he always dressed for Sunday lunch — but his jacket was the old one from Abercrombie’s he wore every fall. It was, Margaret had pointed out, her forehead wrinkling with the extreme pity she reserved for clothes, beginning to tatter at the collar. Mr. Eliot said he liked it that way.

He crossed the lane and continued along the trail toward the Olneys’. He passed a group walking the other way — it must have been some of the Fenwick children, the boy looked just like Diana. He nodded, never could remember their names. Hello, Mr. Eliot, said one of the girls, carrying a baby. Was that Lilian’s friend? No, she’d been taller, he thought, and remembered oddly that that was where Lilian had found that disagreeable fellow, the one who was killed in the war, wasn’t it? And Lilian had taken it badly. Margaret even worried about her getting over it, but of course she would, and did. He had three Finch grandchildren to prove it. Extraordinarily, the odd thought which came into one’s head.

He came out on Welch Road. A black dog ran to the corner barking, and barked there hoarsely as Mr. Eliot went by. He’d seen the dog before, and knew that going by any faster would not make any difference, so he did not hurry. The dog stood with its legs apart, snapping at the air. It did not matter that Mr. Eliot was Mr. Eliot, the dog would have been barking at anyone. As Mr. Eliot went up the hill, he found the slope steeper than usual. A car drove up from behind, idling near him in the twilight, then passing with a little rev.

They were irritating, these cars. His breath came shorter as he continued up the hill. The shadows fell over him. Involuntarily he thought of Harry Sprague dropping on the eighth tee last July at Longwood. Harry Sprague had been younger than Mr. Eliot and, Mr. Eliot had always thought, more fit. He had allowed himself, at his death, the tiniest satisfaction that he’d outlasted him. Harry Sprague had been an old friend and would not have taken offense. His son Charlie had limped up to the podium and had given the eulogy which moved everyone. Mr. Eliot tried to envision Arthur in the role and scoffed at the idea. Arthur was good at smart talk. Mr. Eliot had specifically not named his son after himself with the hope of granting the boy a degree of freedom. He guessed he’d succeeded there.