“Or rather, that is what I thought. But when Netty got over to my father’s house and I told her what had happened, she flew right off the handle. That is her own expression for being utterly unstrung, ‘flying right off the handle.’ She whooped and bellowed and made awful feminine roaring noises until I was extremely frightened. But I had to hold her and comfort her. I still don’t know what ailed her. Of course my father was a very big figure in her life—as he was in the life of anybody who knew him well—but she was no kin, you know. The upshot of it was that very soon my stepmother was attending to Netty, instead of the other way round, and as the chauffeur had roused all the other servants there was a spooky gathering of half-clad people in the drawing-room, staring and wondering as Netty made a holy show of herself. I got somebody to call my sister, Caroline, and quite soon afterward she and Beesty Bastable appeared, and I have never been so glad to see them in my life.

“Caroline was terribly shocked, but she behaved well. Rather a cold woman, but not a fool. And Beesty Bastable—her husband—is one of those puffing, goggle-eyed, fattish fellows who don’t seem worth their keep, but who have sometimes a surprising touch with people. It was he, really, who got the servants busy making hot drinks—and got Netty to stop moaning, and kept Caroline and my stepmother from having a fight about nothing at all, or really because Caroline started in much too soon assuming that proprietorial attitude people take toward the recently bereaved, and my stepmother didn’t like being told to go and lie down in her own house.

“I was grateful to Beesty because when things were sorted out he said, ‘Now for one good drink, and then nothing until we’ve had some sleep, what?’ Beesty says ‘what?’ a great deal, as a lot of Old Ontario people with money tend to do. I think it’s an Edwardian affectation and they haven’t found out yet that it’s out of fashion. But Beesty kept me from drinking too much then, and he stuck to me like a burr for hours afterward, I suppose for the same reason. Anyhow, I went home at last to my apartment, which was blessedly free of Netty, and though I didn’t sleep and Beesty very tactfully kept me away from the decanters, I did get a bath, and had two hours of quiet before Beesty stuck his head into my room at eight o’clock and said he’d fried some eggs. I didn’t think I wanted fried eggs; I wanted an egg whipped up in brandy, but it was astonishing how good the fried eggs tasted. Don’t you think it’s rather humbling how hungry calamity makes one?

“As we ate, Beesty told me what had to be done. Odd, perhaps, because he’s only a stockbroker and my father and I had always tended to write him off as a fool, though decent enough. But his family is prominent, and he’d managed quite a few funerals and knew the ropes. He even knew of a good undertaker. I wouldn’t have known where to look for one. I mean, who’s ever met an undertaker? It’s like what people say about dead donkeys: who’s ever seen one? He got on the telephone and arranged with his favourite undertaker to collect the body whenever the police were ready to release it. Then he said we must talk with Denyse to arrange details of the burial. He seemed to think she wouldn’t want to see us until late in the morning, but when he called she was on the line at once and said she would see us at nine o’clock and not to be late because she had a lot to do.