"If you had," said Mrs. Weekes, "you'd have found that owing to your mazed foolishness in leaving the gate open a while back, Huggins' cow got in, an' the daring hussy ate our Machaelmas daisies down to the roots afore I could force her out again. All the same, we'll do something, else Sarah Jane won't send us a memorial card; and I like to see them black-edged cards stuck in the parlour looking-glass. They be good for us, and remind us that a time will come when they'll be printing ours."
"Leave that to me," said Philip. "Not your card—God forbid!" he added hastily, "but the wreath. I thought well of poor Friend—very well—a most hopeful creature. 'Twas only back-along, at his grandchild's christening, that me and him had a great tell over things in general."
"If 'tis a boughten wreath, I'd be wishful to put a shilling from my savings to it," said Susan. "I'm terrible fond of Sarah Jane, and she'll be cruel sad for him."
They rolled the morsel of other folks' sorrow upon their tongues.
Mrs. Weekes surprised nobody by deciding to attend the interment. A funeral was an event she rarely denied herself, if it was possible to be present. She found the ceremony restful and suggestive.
"You and me will go, Jar," she said. "You can't come, master, because you'll have to be on your rounds against market-day. But Jar and me will stand for the family."
"And me," said Susan. "I can borrow a bit of black easily from a lot of girls."
"I want to go," began Philip. "I really want to go. As a rule funerals ban't all to me they are to you, my dear; but this is out of the common. Yes, I must ax of you to let me go, out of respect to poor Friend."
Thereupon Mrs. Weekes took the opportunity and her voice rose to a familiar and penetrating pitch.
"Nought to you if we starve," she began. "You—amusing yourself on Friday of all days—and the people along your beat waiting and wondering, and coming down on us next week for damages; and me going empty-handed to market Saturday, to be the laughing-stock of Devon and Cornwall; and——"