His food lay untouched about his plate. “That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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