Mary found herself for the moment in a world where bodies were in the habit of being despatched by all sorts of conveyances to all sorts of places. And at the funeral two young men in buttoned-up uniforms stood beside the grave and spoke to her afterwards.
'You're Miss Postgate, aren't you?' said one. 'Fowler told me about you. He was a good chap—a first-class fellow—a great loss.'
'Great loss!' growled his companion. 'We're all awfully sorry.'
'How high did he fall from?' Mary whispered.
'Pretty nearly four thousand feet, I should think, didn't he? You were up that day, Monkey?'
'All of that,' the other child replied. 'My bar made three thousand, and I wasn't as high as him by a lot.'
'Then that's all right,' said Mary. 'Thank you very much.'
They moved away as Mrs. Grant flung herself weeping on Mary's flat chest, under the lych-gate, and cried, 'I know how it feels! 'I know how it feels!'
'But both his parents are dead,' Mary returned, as she fended her off. 'Perhaps they've all met by now,' she added vaguely as she escaped towards the coach.
'I've thought of that too,' wailed Mrs. Grant; 'but then he'll be practically a stranger to them. Quite embarrassing!'
Mary faithfully reported every detail of the ceremony to Miss Fowler, who, when she described Mrs. Grant's outburst, laughed aloud.
