Not that picture alone; others flashed before her.  Instantaneously she had a glimpse of Bibbs’s life and into his life.  She had a queer feeling, new to her experience, of knowing him instantly.  It startled her a little; and then, with some surprise, she realized that she was glad he had sat so long, after getting into the coupe, before he noticed that it had not started.  What she did not realize, however, was that she had made no response to his apology, and they passed out of the cemetery gates, neither having spoken again.

Bibbs was so content with the silence he did not know that it was silence.  The dusk, gathering in their small inclosure, was filled with a rich presence for him; and presently it was so dark that neither of the two could see the other, nor did even their garments touch.  But neither had any sense of being alone.  The wheels creaked steadily, rumbling presently on paved streets; there were the sounds, as from a distance, of the plod-plod of the horses; and sometimes the driver became audible, coughing asthmatically, or saying, “You, Joe!” with a spiritless flap of the whip upon an unresponsive back.  Oblongs of light from the lamps at street-corners came swimming into the interior of the coupe and, thinning rapidly to lances, passed utterly, leaving greater darkness.  And yet neither of these two last attendants at Jim Sheridan’s funeral broke the silence.

It was Mary who preceived the strangeness of it—­too late.  Abruptly she realized that for an indefinite interval she had been thinking of her companion and not talking to him.  “Mr. Sheridan,” she began, not knowing what she was going to say, but impelled to say anything, as she realized the queerness of this drive—­“Mr. Sheridan, I—­”

The coupe stopped.  “You, Joe!” said the driver, reproachfully, and climbed down and opened the door.

“What’s the trouble?” Bibbs inquired.

“Lady said stop at the first house north of Mr. Sheridan’s, sir.”

Mary was incredulous; she felt that it couldn’t be true and that it mustn’t be true that they had driven all the way without speaking.

“What?” Bibbs demanded.

“We’re there, sir,” said the driver, sympathetically.  “Next house north of Mr. Sheridan’s.”

Bibbs descended to the curb.  “Why, yes,” he said.  “Yes, you seem to be right.”  And while he stood staring at the dimly illuminated front windows of Mr. Vertrees’s house Mary got out, unassisted.

“Let me help you,” said Bibbs, stepping toward her mechanically; and she was several feet from the coupe when he spoke.

“Oh no,” she murmured.  “I think I can—­” She meant that she could get out of the coupe without help, but, perceiving that she had already accomplished this feat, she decided not to complete the sentence.

“You, Joe!” cried the driver, angrily, climbing to his box.  And he rumbled away at his team’s best pace—­a snail’s.