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Bayweather about the funeral, would telephone the man in West Ashley who dug graves, would do what was to be done outside; and she would do what was to be done inside, as now, when she sat on the stairs waiting in case the undertaker needed something. She was glad that the undertaker was only quiet, white-bearded old Mr.
"English people always say everything the longest possible way." He explained to the others, "Mr. Bayweather is an impassioned philologist . . ." "So I have gathered," commented Marsh. ". . . and whenever any friends of his go on travels, they are always asked to bring back some philological information about the region where they go."
"Sir, I am yours to command," he said, sitting down on the steps, "ask ahead!" Mr. Welles turned serious, and hesitated. "Mr. Bayweather said . . ." He began and looked anxiously at Neale. "I won't bite even if he did," Neale reassured him. Mr. Welles looked at him with the pleasantest expression in his eyes.
"Or would you think an Easter one, like 'The Strife Is O'er, the Battle Won, more appropriate?" suggested Mr. Bayweather to her silence. Agnes started. "Who's that come bursting into the kitchen?" she cried, turning towards the door. It seemed to Marise, afterwards, that she had known at that moment who had come and what the tidings were. Agnes started towards the door to open it.
"Yes indeed," echoed Marise. "We'll have to prescribe a dance for you every week. You look like a boy, and you've been looking rather tired lately." She had an idea and added, accusingly, "I do believe you've gone on tormenting yourself about the Negro problem!" "Yes, he has!" Mr. Bayweather unexpectedly put in. "And he's not the only person he torments about it.
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