He came into the hall and stood there a quaint, incongruous figure in his cloak and cassock.
“Hullo, Wills,” as the butler came forward.
“How do you do, Mr. Gervase—I mean Sir Ger—or rather I should say——”
He remembered that his young master was now Brother Something-or-other, having crowned an un-squirelike existence, much deplored in the servants’ hall, by entering a Home for Carthlicks. He compromised with—
“Can I have your luggage, sir?”
“Here it is,” said Gervase, holding out on one finger a small bundle tied up in a spotted handkerchief, and Wills who was going to have added “and your keys, sir,” retired in confusion.
“Where’s Peter?” asked Brother Joseph.
“In there,” Jenny pointed into the dining-room where Peter still lay, now no longer pathetic and futile in booted and muddy death, but dignified as his father upstairs under his white sheet.
Young Alard went in, and standing at the head of the table, crossed himself and said the first prayer that had been said yet for Peter. His sisters watched him from the doorway. Doris seemed calmer, her tears came more quietly.
“How’s Mother?” he asked as he came out.