Barry suddenly stopped. He had caught sight, for the first time, of the sheeted and recumbent figure in the adjoining room. From a child he had had an unreasoning fear of dead bodies, and a dread of all the physical conditions and changes which the passing of life implies. The vision of death which confronted him stopped his flow of speech, and sent to the roots of his hair that chilly creepiness that strikes into the flesh when things dreaded and feared are suddenly seen. His wide eyes were fixed on the repellent object in the next room, and it was apparent that he was powerless to turn them away, for he said to the rector without looking at him:
“A—Farrar, would you mind closing that door?”
But the widow herself arose and went to the door and closed it tightly. When she resumed her seat, the smile on her lips was a trifle more pronounced, and the strange light in her eyes glimmered more noticeably.
“You know,” said Barry, “a dead body always gets on my nerves, whether it’s a horse or a dog or a man. I can’t abide the sight of any of them. Well, as I was saying when we were interrupted—let me see! what was I saying?”
“You were speaking,” said the widow, “of the generosity of your company.”
“Yes,” continued Barry, “the—the generosity of my company.” He paused again. The untoward incident seemed to have quite broken the continuity of his thought.
“You know, Mrs. Bradley,” he went on after a moment, “the company doesn’t owe you anything.”
“No,” she replied, “the obligation is quite on the other side. I owe your company something which I shall some day try to repay—with interest.”
Witless and unseeing, he blundered on: “Don’t mention it, my good woman. Our company bears no resentment. In fact we have decided, on my recommendation as vice-president, to treat you as generously as we do widows of our employees with whom we have had no quarrel.”