The church, the churchyard, every inch of space, was full of people. There is not very much to look at in Sliplin, and the great hearse with its moving mass of flowers was as fine a sight as another. Flowers upon that old curmudgeon, that old vile man with his money who had been of no use to anyone! But there were flowers in plenty, as many as if he had been beautiful like them. They were sent, it is to be supposed, to please Katherine, and also from an instinctive tribute to the wealth which gave him importance among his fellow-men, though if they could have placed the sovereigns which these wreaths cost upon his coffin it would have been a more appropriate offering. Sir John and Lady Jane sent their carriage (that most remarkable of all expressions of sympathy) to follow in the procession. That, too, was intended to please Katherine, and the wreath out of their conservatory as a reminder that Stella was to be provided for. Mr. Tredgold thus got a good deal of vicarious honour in his last scene, and he would have liked it all had he been there (as perhaps he was) to see. One thing, however, he would not have liked would have been the apparition of Robert Tredgold, dressed for the occasion in his brother’s clothes, and saying, “He was my brother. I’m his only brother!” to whoever would listen. Bob was disappointed not to give his niece his arm, to stand by her as chief mourner at the foot of the grave. They all went into the drawing-room when they returned to the house. Katherine had no thought of business on that particular day, and her father’s room was too cold and dreary, and full as of a presence invisible, which was not a venerable presence. She shuddered at the idea of entering it; and probably because she was alone, and had no one to suggest it to her, the idea of a will to be read, or arrangements to be settled, did not enter into her mind. She thought they were coming to take leave of her when they all trooped into the gay, much-decorated room, with its gilding and resplendent mirrors. The blinds had been drawn up, and it was all as bright as the ruddy afternoon and the blazing fire could make it. She sat down in her heavy veil and cloak and turned to them, expecting the little farewell speeches, and vulgar consolations, and shaking of hands. But Mr. Sturgeon, the solicitor, drew his chair towards the round table of Florentine work set in gay gilding, and pushed away from before him the books and nick-nacks with which it was covered. His black bag had somehow found its way to him, and he placed it as he spoke between his feet. “I have had no opportunity all day of speaking to you, Miss Katherine,” he said, “nor last night. You retired early, I think, and our search was not very productive. You can tell me now, perhaps, what solicitor your late father, our lamented friend, employed. He ought to have been here.”