That was how she thought of herself, mused Veronica. Probably it didn’t seem as sticky to her as it does to us. And Oh, that last six months! Was that what she called smiling when evening falls? But I tried; I really did try. I slaved for her as I never slaved for my own mother. I did all I could to make her feel our marriage was a good thing for Solly. Did I ever pierce through to her heart? I hope so. I pray so. I want to think kindly of her.

A very little wintry sun struck through one of the Cathedral windows. The calm, silvery voice, somewhat hollow and echoing under the dome, continued.

Veronica cast a sidelong glance at her husband. Silently, he was weeping. He truly loved his mother, in spite of everything, she thought. How I wish I thought that his mother had loved him.

The funeral tea was even more of an ordeal than Solly had foreseen. Such a function is not easily managed, and his mother’s two old servants had been quick to declare that they were unable to attempt it. They were too broken up, they said. They were not so broken up, however, that they were incapable of giving a lot of trouble to the caterer who had been engaged for the work. They thought poorly of his suggestion that three kinds of sandwiches and three kinds of little cakes, supplemented by fruitcake, would be enough. The relatives from Montreal, the Hansens, would expect cold meat, they said; and as it was so near Christmas ordinary fruitcake would not suffice; Christmas cake would be looked for. Madam had never been one to skimp. When old Ethel, the cook, remembered that Thursday had always been Madam’s At Home day, she had a fresh bout of grief, and declared that she would, after all, prepare the funeral tea herself, if it killed her. Solly had been unable to meet this situation and it was Veronica who, at last, made an uneasy peace between Ethel the cook, Doris the housemaid, and the caterer.

The caterer had his own, highly professional attitude toward funeral teas. What about drinks? he said. Sherry would be wanted for the women who never drank anything except at funerals, and there were always a few Old Country people who expected port—especially if there was cold meat. But most of the mourners would want hard liquor, and they would want it as soon as they got into the house.

These winter funerals were murder; everybody was half perished by the time they got back from the graveyard. Solly would have to get the liquor himself; the caterer’s banquet licence did not cover funerals. He would, of course, supply all the glasses and mixings. He advised Solly to get a good friend to act as barman; it wouldn’t do to have a professional barman at such an affair. Looked too calculated. Similarly, the icing which said Merry Christmas would have to be removed from the tops of the fruitcakes. Looked too cheerful.

Obediently, Solly procured and hauled a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of assorted liquors from the Government purveyor on the day before the funeral. But his acquaintance among skilled mixers of drinks was small, and in the end he had to ask the Cathedral organist, Humphrey Cobbler, to help him.

Was Solly grieving for his mother, when he wept during the singing of My Task? Yes, he was. But he was also grieving because Veronica had had such a rotten time of it during the past three days. He was worrying that there would not be enough to eat at the funeral tea. He was worrying for fear there would be too much to eat, and that the funeral baked-meats would coldly furnish forth his own table for days to come. He was worrying that Cobbler, triumphant behind the drinks-table, would fail to behave himself. He was worrying for fear the Hansen relatives would hang around all evening, discussing family affairs, as is the custom of families at funerals, instead of decently taking the seven o’clock train back to Montreal. He was hoping that he could live through the next few hours, get one decent drink for himself, and go to bed.

Solly and Veronica rode to the graveyard in an undertaker’s limousine with Uncle George Hansen, Mrs Bridgetower’s brother, and Uncle George’s American wife. But as soon as the burial was over they hurried to where Solly had left their small car earlier in the day, and rushed with irreverent haste back to the house, to be on hand to greet the mourners when they came ravening for liquor, food and warm fires.

“Do you think they’ll all come?” said Veronica, as they rounded the graveyard gate.

“Very likely. Did you ever see such a mob? I didn’t think more than a hundred would go to the cemetery, but it looks as if they all went. Have we got enough stuff, do you suppose?”

“I can’t tell. I’ve never had anything to do with one of these things before.”

“Nor have I. Ronny, in case I go out of my head before this tea thing is over, I want to tell you now that you’ve been wonderful about it all. In a week or so we’ll go for a holiday, and forget about it.”

When they entered the house it looked cheerful, even festive. Fires burned in the drawing-room, dining-room and in the library, where Cobbler stood ready behind an improvised bar. There was some giggling and scurrying as Solly and his wife came in, and Ethel and Doris were seen making for the kitchen.

“Just been putting the girls right with a strong sherry-and-gin,” said Cobbler. “They’re badly shaken up. Needed bracing. Now, what can I give you?”

“Small ryes,” said Solly. “And for heaven’s sake use discretion, Humphrey.”

“You know me,” said Cobbler, slopping out the rye with a generous hand.

“I do,” said Solly. “That’s why I’m worried. Don’t play the fool for the next couple of hours. That’s all I ask.”

“You wound me,” said the organist, and made an attempt to look dignified. But his blue suit was too small, his collar was frayed, and his tie was working toward his left ear. His curly black hair stood out from his head in a mop, and his black eyes gleamed unnervingly. “You suggest that I lack a sense of propriety. I make no protest; I desire only to be left to My Task.” He winked raffishly at Veronica.

He’s our oldest friend as a married couple, thought she, and a heart of gold. If only he were not so utterly impossible! She smiled at him. “Please, Humphrey,” said she.

He winked again, tossed a lump of sugar in the air and caught it in his mouth.”Trust me,” he said.

What else can we do? thought Veronica.

The mourners had begun to arrive, and Solly went to greet them. There was congestion at the door, for most of the guests paused to take off their overshoes and rubbers, and those who had none were scraping the graveyard clay from their feet. It was half an hour before the last had climbed the stairs, left wraps, taken a turn at the water-closet, descended the stairs and received a drink from Cobbler. They had the air, festive but subdued, which is common to funeral teas. The grim business at the graveside done, they were prepared to make new, tentative contact with life. They greeted Solly with half-smiles, inviting him to smile in return. Beyond his orbit conversation buzzed, and there was a little subdued laughter. They had all, in some measure, admired or even liked his mother, but her death at seventy-one had surprised nobody, and such grief as they felt for her had already been satisfied at the funeral. Dean Jevon Knapp, of St Nicholas’, bustled up to Solly; he had left his cassock and surplice upstairs, and had put on the warm dry shoes which Mrs Knapp always took to funerals for him, in a special bag; he had his gaiters on, and was holding a large Scotch and soda.

“I have always thought this one of the loveliest rooms in Salterton,” said he.