“And it will be read, of course, directly after the funeral?” said the dark young man.
The lawyer did not reply.
“I suppose you think it’s bad form of a man asking such questions now; but really, Mr Girtle, it would be worse form for a fellow to be pulling a long face about one he never saw.”
“But he was your father’s friend.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Hence you, sir, are here,” continued the lawyer. “My instructions were clear enough. I was to invite you here at this painful time, and take my old friend’s place as your host.”
“You have been most kind, Mr Girtle,” said Miss D’Enghien.
“I thank you, madam, and I grieve that you should have to be present at so painful a time. My next instructions were to send for the Italian professor, who is here to carry out the wishes of the deceased.”
“Horrible idea for a man to wish to be embalmed,” said Artis, brutally.
Lydia Lawrence shuddered, and turned away her face. Paul Capel glanced indignantly at the speaker, and then turned to gaze at Katrine D’Enghien, who sat perfectly unmoved, her hand still hanging from the side of the chair, as if to show the graceful contour of her arm.