Yes, thought Mary—she must have forgiven me long ago. When was it, I wonder? When did I suddenly become respectable? Was it after the first time I organised the Red Cross Bazaar? Or simply when it got about that I was being received again at the Hall?

“We felt so sorry for poor Mrs. Richard,” said Miss Townend.

And at last Mary was touched. The sincere, cinema-goer’s romantic sentimentality of this dried-up spinster, moved by the sorrows of the beautiful and blue-blooded. There was beauty in the gloating of Miss Townend over Mrs. Richard.

And she made it better by adding:

“We were so glad old Mr. Vernon was able to get here, to-day. We were all so very much hoping that he would.”

So, after all, Lily’s instinct in that wreath business had been entirely right.

And now Ram’s B was helping Father into the carriage, with the aid of Kent and Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Askew. Father was allowing himself to be particularly heavy, out of swank; like a baby being naughty and even sick because there are visitors. People coming out of the churchyard paused to admire the spectacle. There he sat, and they tucked him in with the carriage rug. The people gazed at him with curiosity. Mary considered her father through their eyes. He was among the best of his sort in these parts—where Rolls-Royce cars were often to be found in the garages of quite small villas. Landowners were becoming obsolete. Father was obsolete. The vehicle he sat in was obsolete. The animal which drew it was nearly obsolete—soon perhaps to become a Zoo exhibit or an outdoor pet. Perhaps he had a certain interest on that account. He would soon not be there. His present claim on their attention was chiefly that, by a sort of accident, he happened to be not yet dead.

Conscious that Mr. Askew and Mr. Hardwick—not to mention Mrs. Cooper, Miss Townend and Mrs. Higginbottom—vaguely expected it, Mary advanced to the carriage, mounted the step with one foot, and, leaning over, kissed John on the top of the head.

He submitted quite pathically, just uttering the usual grunt of acquiescence.

“How are you, Father?” she asked.

But he merely smiled, gave another brief grunt. He wouldn’t tell her.

Stepping down from the carriage, she asked Lily, who was standing ready to get in:

“How do you think Father is?”

“Oh, wonderfully well, I think,” said Lily.

And it seemed to Mary that she couldn’t keep out of her voice just that slightly defiant note—as much as to say: Do you think I don’t take care of him?

“He wants you to come over and have lunch with us one day next week,” Lily added, heightening this effect.