said. They could only sit and look at each other.

And then Mr. Twist came hurrying across from the baggage office, wiping
his forehead, for the night was hot. Behind him came the porter,
ruefully balancing the piled-up grips on his truck.

"I'm sorry to have been so--" began Mr. Twist, smiling cheerfully: but
he stopped short in his sentence and left off smiling when he saw the
expression in the four eyes fixed on him. "What has happened?" he asked
quickly.

"Only what we might have expected," said Anna-Rose.

"Mr. Dellogg's dead," said Anna-Felicitas.

"You don't say," said Mr. Twist; and after a pause he said again, "You
don't say."

Then he recovered himself. "I'm very sorry to hear it, of course," he
said briskly, picking himself up, as it were, from this sudden and
unexpected tumble, "but I don't see that it matters to you so long as
Mrs. Dellogg isn't dead too."

"Yes, but--" began Anna-Rose.

"Mr. Dellogg isn't _very_ dead, you see," said Anna-Felicitas.

Mr. Twist looked from them to the driver, but finding no elucidation
there and only disapproval, looked back again.

"He isn't dead and settled _down_," said Anna-Rose.

"Not _that_ sort of being dead," said Anna-Felicitas. "He's _just_
dead."

"Just got to the stage when he has a funeral," said Anna-Rose.

"His funeral, it seems, is imminent," said Anna-Felicitas. "Did you not
give us to understand," she asked, turning to the driver, "that it was
imminent?"

"I don't know about imminent," said the driver, who wasn't going to
waste valuable time with words like that, "but it's to-morrow."

"And you see what that means for us," said Anna-Felicitas, turning to
Mr. Twist.

Mr. Twist did.

He again wiped his forehead, but not this time because the night was
hot.

CHAPTER XX

Manifestly it is impossible to thrust oneself into a house where there
is going to be a funeral next day, even if one has come all the way from
New York and has nowhere else to go. Equally manifestly it is impossible
to thrust oneself into it after the funeral till a decent interval has
elapsed. But what the devil, Mr. Twist asked himself in language become
regrettably natural to him since his sojourn at the front, is a decent
interval?

This Mr. Twist asked himself late that night, pacing up and down the
sea-shore in the warm and tranquil darkness in front of the Cosmopolitan
Hotel, while the twins, utterly tired out by their journey and the
emotions at the