At ten-fifteen precisely Aunt Laura appeared in the dining-room, in a black silk dress smelling faintly of lavender: a minute later, Uncle Albert, in a frock coat, coaxing the last sweetness from his after-breakfast pipe. Mr. Ingleby also had exchanged the alpaca jacket in which he had been leisurely examining his roses, for the same uniform. Uncle Albert, Edwin noticed, had not yet removed the deep band of crape from his top-hat. As usual, Aunt Laura appeared a little flustered, the strain of conscious magnificence in her millinery making it difficult for her to collect her thoughts. “Are you sure you have all the prayer-books, Albert?” she asked anxiously. Uncle Albert regretfully knocked out his pipe. “Yes, my dear,” he said. “Don’t scatter those ashes all over the fireplace, Albert. The least you can do is to keep the room tidy on Sunday.” “Yes, my dear.” “Edwin, have you got your prayer-book? Why, boy, you’ve actually put on a grey striped tie. Run and change it quickly. I don’t know what people will think.” Edwin, smarting, obeyed. When he returned the atmosphere of impatience had increased. Aunt Laura was saying: “John, dear, are you sure that the clock is right? I’m afraid the bells have stopped. No . . . thank goodness, there they are again. That’s better, Edwin. Now we really must start. You have the money for the collection, Albert? Give it to me, or you’ll be sure to leave me without any. I do hope we shan’t be late. We should look so prominent. . . .”