The Bishop and the choir came out of the vestry door and filed in procession amongst the gravestones towards the Cross. The orderly procession of surplices converged towards the dark straggling body of the congregation, from which detached themselves, forming into line, the ex-Service men, the buglers, the Boy Scout Troop. The order of the service must have been rehearsed, of course, but on the uneven, sloping ground the movements of the different parties were uncertain and tentative. They shuffled into their places, forming three sides of a rough square. It was very hot and still, and various everyday sounds—the crowing of cocks on a farm, the wail of a train in the valley—were disconcertingly prominent. Lily was unpleasantly aware of the nearness of all these people. Of the stuffy smell of their mourning and of their Sunday boots. Their grief, which had seemed beautiful and triumphant over death while they were inside the church, was now, under green trees, crude and hypocritical and sordid. Rooks flapped above them, scattering tiny twigs which fell from high aloft, spinning, to lodge on women’s hats. People sniffed or cleared their throats. Some were coughing.

With an effort she withdrew her attention from these sounds and fixed it upon the Cross. She liked the design, and would have liked it a good deal better if there hadn’t been so much ornamentation on the shaft. But it was in very good taste compared with the granite atrocities they were putting up in the neighbouring villages. She wondered what Richard would have thought of it.

Now they were all ready for the dedication to to begin. Lily and Mr. Vernon and Mary were standing almost directly in front of the Cross. Mr. Hardwick was on one side of Papa, Lily on the other. Mary was at Lily’s elbow. Edward had withdrawn somewhere into the background.

Lily glanced round for Eric, and saw him standing just behind, with Anne. Anne is getting very pretty, Lily thought. Both Mary’s children were good-looking—Maurice even more so than his sister. But I wouldn’t change my darling Eric for either of them, Lily thought. And, after all, Anne isn’t so pretty as she might be. There’s something wrong with the way her forehead comes down. And her face is too broad. As for Maurice, I don’t know. There’s something about him one doesn’t quite like. He reminds one slightly of his father. But I mustn’t go on like this, Lily thought. Why can’t I be nicer to Mary and her children? Besides, I see them so seldom. How could I possibly judge?