Looking out somewhat furtively from beneath her veil, Mrs. Sixsmith could observe only a few farmers conversing together beneath the immemorial yews of S. Irene.
It was over.
There was nothing left to do but to throw a last glance at the wreaths.
“From the artists and staff of the Source Theatre as a trifling proof of their esteem”—such the large lyre crushing her own “Resurgam.” And there also was the Marys’ with their motto: “All men and women are merely players. They have their exits and their entrances.” And the “Heureuse!” tribute by the sexton’s tools—she craned—was Yvonde de Yalta’s, it appeared.
“Yvonde de Yalta!”
Mrs. Sixsmith gulped.
“You grieve?”
Canon Sinquier stood beside her.
“I——” she stammered.
“So many tributes,” he said.