’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. "Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. ” “Perhaps not in a general way,” he answered calmly. ‘Yes, only that this consolation he had found before he married my mother. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly.
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