III

There was a funeral in Dublin of a young married woman. The undertaker, after the wont of his craft, was arranging the whole affair according to the completest local rules of mortuary etiquette. He bustled up to the widower saying:

“You, sir, will of course go in the carriage with the mother of the deceased.”

“What! Me go in the carriage with my mother-in-law! Not likely!”

“Oh, sir, but I assure you it is necessary. The rule is an inviolable one, established by precedents beyond all cavil!” expostulated the horrified undertaker. But the widower was obdurate.

“I won’t go. That’s flat!”

“Oh, but, my good sir, remember the gravity of the occasion—the publicity—the—the—possibility—scandal.” His voice faded into a gasp. The widower stuck to his resolution and so the undertaker laid the matter before some of his intimate friends who were waiting instructions. They surrounded the chief mourner and began to remonstrate with him:

“You really must, old chap; it is necessary.”

“I’ll not! Go with me mother-in-law!—Rot!”

“But look here, old chap——”

“I’ll not I tell ye—I’ll go in any other carriage that ye wish; but not in that.”

“Oh, of course, if ye won’t, ye won’t. But remember it beforehand that afterwards when it’ll be thrown up against ye, that it’ll be construed into an affront on the poor girl that’s gone. Ye loved her, Jack, we all know, an’ ye wouldn’t like that!”

This argument prevailed. He signed to the undertaker and began to pull on his black gloves. As he began to move towards the carriage he turned to his friends and said in a low voice:

“I’m doin’ it because ye say I ought to, and for the poor girl that’s gone. But ye’ll spoil me day!”