He found his attention converging more and more upon the Larkins cousins. The interest was reciprocal. They watched him with a kind of suppressed excitement and became risible with his every word and gesture. He was more and more aware of their personal quality. Annie had blue eyes and a red, attractive mouth, a harsh voice and a habit of extreme liveliness that even this occasion could not suppress; Minnie was fond, extremely free about the touching of hands and suchlike endearments; Miriam was quieter and regarded him earnestly. Mrs. Larkins was very happy in her daughters, and they had the naïve affectionateness of those who see few people and find a strange cousin a wonderful outlet. Mr. Polly had never been very much kissed, and it made his mind swim. He did not know for the life of him whether he liked or disliked all or any of the Larkins cousins. It was rather attractive to make them laugh; they laughed at anything. There they were tugging at his mind, and the funeral tugging at his mind, too, and the sense of himself as Chief Mourner in a brand new silk hat with a broad mourning band. He watched the ceremony and missed his responses, and strange feelings twisted at his heartstrings. V Mr. Polly walked back to the house because he wanted to be alone. Miriam and Minnie would have accompanied him, but finding Uncle Pentstemon beside the Chief Mourner they went on in front. "You're wise," said Uncle Pentstemon. "Glad you think so," said Mr. Polly, rousing himself to talk. "I likes a bit of walking before a meal," said Uncle Pentstemon, and made a kind of large hiccup. "That sherry rises," he remarked. "Grocer's stuff, I expect." He went on to ask how much the funeral might be costing, and seemed pleased to find Mr. Polly didn't know. "In that case," he said impressively, "it's pretty certain to cost more'n you expect, my boy." He meditated for a time. "I've seen a mort of undertakers," he declared; "a mort of undertakers." The Larkins girls attracted his attention. "Let's lodgin's and chars," he commented. "Leastways she goes out to cook dinners. And look at 'em! "Dressed up to the nines. If it ain't borryd clothes, that is. And they goes out to work at a factory!" "Did you know my father much, Uncle Pentstemon?" asked Mr. Polly. "Couldn't stand Lizzie throwin' herself away like that," said Uncle Pentstemon, and repeated his hiccup on a larger scale. "That _weren't_ good sherry," said Uncle Pentstemon with the first note of pathos Mr. Polly had detected in his quavering voice.