By the first post was delivered a letter addressed to Sophia by Mr. Till Boldero.  From its contents the death of Gerald Scales was clear.  There seemed then to be nothing else for Constance to do.  What had to be done was done for her.  And stronger wills than hers put her to bed.  Cyril was telegraphed for.  Mr. Critchlow called, Mrs. Critchlow following—­a fussy infliction, but useful in certain matters.  Mr. Critchlow was not allowed to see Constance.  She could hear his high grating voice in the corridor.  She had to lie calm, and the sudden tranquillity seemed strange after the feverish violence of the night.  Only twenty-four hours since, and she had been worrying about the death of a dog!  With a body crying for sleep, she dozed off, thoughts of the mystery of life merging into the incoherence of dreams.

The news was abroad in the Square before nine o’clock.  There were persons who had witnessed the arrival of the motorcar, and the transfer of Sophia to the house.  Untruthful rumours had spread as to the manner of Gerald Scales’s death.  Some said that he had dramatically committed suicide.  But the town, though titillated, was not moved as it would have been moved by a similar event twenty years, or even ten years earlier.  Times had changed in Bursley.  Bursley was more sophisticated than in the old days.

Constance was afraid lest Cyril, despite the seriousness of the occasion, might exhibit his customary tardiness in coming.  She had long since learnt not to rely upon him.  But he came the same evening.  His behaviour was in every way perfect.  He showed quiet but genuine grief for the death of his aunt, and he was a model of consideration for his mother.  Further, he at once assumed charge of all the arrangements, in regard both to Sophia and to her husband.  Constance was surprised at the ease which he displayed in the conduct of practical affairs, and the assurance with which he gave orders.  She had never seen him direct anything before.  He said, indeed, that he had never directed anything before, but that there appeared to him to be no difficulties.  Whereas Constance had figured a tiresome series of varied complications.  As to the burial of Sophia, Cyril was vigorously in favour of an absolutely private funeral; that is to say, a funeral at which none but himself should be present.  He seemed to have a passionate objection to any sort of parade.  Constance agreed with him.  But she said that it would be impossible not to invite Mr. Critchlow, Sophia’s trustee, and that if Mr. Critchlow were invited certain others must be invited.  Cyril asked:  “Why impossible?” Constance said:  “Because it mould be impossible.  Because Mr. Critchlow would be hurt.”  Cyril asked:  “What does it matter if he is hurt?” and suggested that Mr. Critchlow would get over his damage.  Constance grew more serious.  The discussion threatened to be warm.  Suddenly Cyril yielded.  “All right, Mrs. Plover, all right!  It shall be exactly