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‘Would you like to say a short prayer?’ said the Vicar.
He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him
Philip followed his example. He looked at the little shriv-
elled face. He was only conscious of one emotion: what a
wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave a cough, and stood
up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed.
‘That’s from the Squire,’ he said. He spoke in a low voice
as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergy-
man, he found himself quite at home. ‘I expect tea is ready.’
They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn
blinds gave a lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of
the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out
the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help feeling that
neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but
when he saw that his uncle’s appetite was unimpaired he fell
to with his usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while.
Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of
grief which he felt was decent.
‘Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,’
said the Vicar presently. ‘In my young days the mourners
used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of
black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used to make the silk
into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave her a
new dress.’
Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were
twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife
of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but
probably a good many more would come the next day; the
funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the vicarage, and

0 Of Human Bondage