articles as he required, when he required them, and he would never preserve what was done with.  He possessed no jewellery save a set of gold studs, a scarf-ring, and a wedding-ring; the wedding-ring was buried with him.  Once, when Constance had offered him her father’s gold watch and chain, he had politely refused it, saying that he preferred his own—­a silver watch (with a black cord) which kept excellent time; he had said later that she might save the gold watch and chain for Cyril when he was twenty-one.  Beyond these trifles and a half-empty box of cigars and a pair of spectacles, he left nothing personal to himself.  Some men leave behind them a litter which takes months to sift and distribute.  But Samuel had not the mania for owning.  Constance put his clothes in a box to be given away gradually (all except an overcoat and handkerchiefs which might do for Cyril); she locked up the watch and its black cord, the spectacles and the scarf-ring; she gave the gold studs to Cyril; she climbed on a chair and hid the cigar-box on the top of her wardrobe; and scarce a trace of Samuel remained!

By his own wish the funeral had been as simple and private as possible.  One or two distant relations, whom Constance scarcely knew and who would probably not visit her again until she too was dead, came—­and went.  And lo! the affair was over.  The simple celerity of the funeral would have satisfied even Samuel, whose tremendous self-esteem hid itself so effectually behind such externals that nobody had ever fully perceived it.  Not even Constance quite knew Samuel’s secret opinion of Samuel.  Constance was aware that he had a ridiculous side, that his greatest lack had been a lack of spectacular dignity.  Even in the coffin, where nevertheless most people are finally effective, he had not been imposing—­with his finicky little grey beard persistently sticking up.

The vision of him in his coffin—­there in the churchyard, just at the end of King Street!—­with the lid screwed down on that unimportant beard, recurred frequently in the mind of the widow, as something untrue and misleading.  She had to say to herself:  “Yes, he is really there!  And that is why I have this particular feeling in my heart.”  She saw him as an object pathetic and wistful, not majestic.  And yet she genuinely thought that there could not exist another husband quite so honest, quite so just, quite so reliable, quite so good, as Samuel had been.  What a conscience he had!  How he would try, and try, to be fair with her!  Twenty years she could remember, of ceaseless, constant endeavour on his part to behave rightly to her!  She could recall many an occasion when he had obviously checked himself, striving against his tendency to cold abruptness and to sullenness, in order to give her the respect due to a wife.  What loyalty was his!  How she could depend on him!  How much better he was than herself (she thought with modesty)!