“Well,” he thought to himself as he drove towards the station, “I am glad to be clear of this business: somehow it was more depressing than most funerals. I suppose that there’s an end of a connection that has lasted a hundred years, though there will be some pickings when the estate is foreclosed on. I am glad it didn’t happen in Sir Reginald’s time, for I had a liking for the old man and his grand last-century manners. The new baronet seems a roughish fellow, with a sharp edge to his tongue; but I dare say he has a deal to worry him, and he looks very ill. What fools they were to cut the entail! They can’t blame us about it, anyway, for we remonstrated with them strongly enough. Sir Reginald was under the thumb of that dead son of his—that’s the fact, and he was a scamp, or something like it. Now they are beggared, absolutely beggared: they won’t even be able to pay their debts. It’s not one man’s funeral that I have been assisting at—it is that of a whole ancient family, without benefit of clergy or hope of resurrection. The girl is going to marry a rich man: she knows which side her bread is buttered, and has a good head on her shoulders—that’s one comfort. Well, they are bankrupt and done with, and it is no good distressing myself over what can’t be helped. Here’s the station. I wonder if I need tip the coachman. I remember he drove me when I came down to the elder boy’s christening; we were both young then. Not necessary, I think: I sha’n’t be likely to see him again.” CHAPTER XVI. FORTITER IN RE. When the lawyer had gone, for a while there was silence in Henry’s room. Everybody seemed to wish to speak, and yet no one could find any words to say. Of course Henry was aware that the subject which had been discussed at the last dreadful scene of his father’s life would be renewed on the first opportunity, but he was nervously anxious that it should not be now, when he did not feel able to cope with the bitter arguments which he was sure Ellen was preparing for him, and still less with the pleadings of his mother, should she condescend to plead. After all it was he who spoke the first. “Perhaps, Ellen,” he said, “you will tell me who were present at our father’s funeral.” “Everybody,” she answered; adding, with meaning, “You see, the truth about us has not yet come out. We are still supposed to be people of honour and position.” Her mother turned and made a gesture with her hand, as though to express disapproval of the tone in which she spoke; and, taking the hint, Ellen went on in a dry, clear voice, like that of one who reads an inventory, to give the names of the neighbours who attended the burial, and of more distant friends who had sent wreaths, saying in conclusion: “Mr. Levinger of course was there, but Emma did not come. She sent a lovely wreath of eucharist lilies and stephanotis.”