I heard him trying to render the stock phrases of Low Church piety into French for the benefit of the stolid man in grey alpaca. Then he knocked a glass off the table, and scrabbled for the fragments. From the first I doubted the theory of an immediate death. I consulted the doctor in urgent whispers. I turned round to get champagne, and nearly fell over the clergyman’s legs. He was on his knees at the additional chair the Basque landlady had got on my arrival, and he was praying aloud, “Oh, Heavenly Father, have mercy on this thy Child....” I hustled him up and out of the way, and in another minute he was down at another chair praying again, and barring the path of the _religieuse_, who had found me the corkscrew. Something put into my head that tremendous blasphemy of Carlyle’s about “the last mew of a drowning kitten.” He found a third chair vacant presently; it was as if he was playing a game. “Good Heavens!” I said, “we must clear these people out,” and with a certain urgency I did. I had a temporary lapse of memory, and forgot all my French. I drove them out mainly by gesture, and opened the window, to the universal horror. I intimated the death scene was postponed, and, as a matter of fact, my uncle did not die until the next night. I did not let the little clergyman come near him again, and I was watchful for any sign that his mind had been troubled. But he made none. He talked once about “that parson chap.” “Didn’t bother you?” I asked. “Wanted something,” he said. I kept silence, listening keenly to his mutterings. I understood him to say, “They wanted too much.” His face puckered like a child’s going to cry. “You can’t get a safe six per cent.,” he said. I had for a moment a wild suspicion that those urgent talks had not been altogether spiritual, but that, I think, was a quite unworthy and unjust suspicion. The little clergyman was as simple and honest as the day. My uncle was simply generalising about his class. But it may have been these talks that set loose some long dormant string of ideas in my uncle’s brain, ideas the things of this world had long suppressed and hidden altogether. Near the end he suddenly became clearminded and lucid, albeit very weak, and his voice was little, but clear. “George,” he said. “I’m here,” I said, “close beside you.” “George. You have always been responsible for the science. George. You know better than I do. Is—Is it proved?” “What proved?” “Either way?” “I don’t understand.” “Death ends all. After so much—Such splendid beginnin’s. Somewhere. Something.” I stared at him amazed. His sunken eyes were very grave. “What do you expect?” I said in wonder. He would not answer. “Aspirations,” he whispered. He fell into a broken monologue, regardless of me. “Trailing clouds of glory,” he said, and “first-rate poet, first-rate....George was always hard. Always.” For a long time there was silence. Then he made a gesture that he wished to speak. “Seems to me, George”