Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.
“I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let anyone else bury her.”
Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.
“Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I’m afraid no one else will make such good ones.”
“She’s not going?” cried Philip, with astonishment.
Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Carey. “I didn’t think it would do to have a single woman in the house.”
“But, good heavens, she must be over forty.”
“Yes, I think she is. But she’s been rather troublesome lately, she’s been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice.”
“It’s certainly one which isn’t likely to recur,” said Philip.