The city moved on about its business, and its business was homes.

* * * * *

At the great organ behind the staircase the organist sat.  In stiff rows near him were the Cardew servants, marshaled by Grayson and in their best.

Grayson stood, very rigid, and waited.  And as he waited he kept his eyes on the portrait of old Anthony, in the drawing-room beyond.  There was a fixed, rapt look in Grayson’s eyes, and there was reassurance.  It was as though he would say to the portrait:  “It has all come out very well, you see, sir.  It always works out somehow.  We worry and fret, we old ones, but the young come along, and somehow or other they manage, sir.”

What he actually said was to tell a house maid to stop sniveling.

Over the house was the strange hush of waiting.  It had waited before this, for birth and for death, but never before—­

The Bishop was waiting also, and he too had his eyes fixed on old Anthony’s portrait, a straight, level-eyed gaze, as of man to man, as of prince of the church to prince of industry.  The Bishop’s eyes said:  “All shall be done properly and in order, and as befits the Cardews, Anthony.”

The Bishop was as successful in his line as Anthony Cardew had been in his.  He cleared his throat.

The organist sat at the great organ behind the staircase, waiting.  He was playing very softly, with his eyes turned up.  He had played the same music many times before, and always he felt very solemn, as one who makes history.  He sighed.  Sometimes it seemed to him that he was only an accompaniment to life, to which others sang and prayed, were christened, confirmed and married.  But what was the song without the music?  He wished the scullery maid would stop crying.

Grayson touched him on the arm.

“All ready, sir,” he said.

*****

Willy Cameron stood at the foot of the staircase, looking up.