He laughed a little, quite gently, but the sound jarred vaguely upon Lily.
"Has the whole thing upset you, poor child? It's the first time, I suppose, you've been to a funeral, isn't it? Well, I must say I hope nothing of that sort will ever be done over me. I should like to be buried at sea."
He flung back his shoulders, tapping his broad chest with the tips of his fingers.
"When this 'poor clay' is laid by, I must say that I should like to think that its only grave was to be rolling waters, eh, Lily?"
She was conscious of feeling more utterly out of tune with his mood than ever before.
"What can it matter, if it isn't oneself at all? Lots of people say that, about being buried at sea, but it's no more and no less than being buried anywhere else. What's the difference?"
He looked surprised.
"What's happened to my holy little saint? I should have thought that the prayers and the consecrated ground and all the rest of it meant a great deal to you, Lily."
His kind, good-humoured air of interested curiosity made her regret her own exasperation, of which, however, she knew herself to be far more conscious than he was.
"Nicholas, tell me really. What do you think has happened to Cousin Charlie's soul, now?"