ans
I shall have to go back to town at once." He frowned at the telegram
ferociously.

"But that's absurd, impossible," cried Anne. She had been standing by
the window talking to Gombauld; but at Denis's words she came swaying
across the room towards him.

"It's urgent," he repeated desperately.

"But you've only been here such a short time," Anne protested.

"I know," he said, utterly miserable. Oh, if only she could understand!
Women were supposed to have intuition.

"If he must go, he must," put in Mary firmly.

"Yes, I must." He looked at the telegram again for inspiration. "You
see, it's urgent family business," he explained.

Priscilla got up from her chair in some excitement. "I had a distinct
presentiment of this last night," she said. "A distinct presentiment."

"A mere coincidence, no doubt," said Mary, brushing Mrs. Wimbush out of
the conversation. "There's a very good train at 3.27." She looked at the
clock on the mantelpiece. "You'll have nice time to pack."

"I'll order the motor at once." Henry Wimbush rang the bell. The funeral
was well under way. It was awful, awful.

"I am wretched you should be going," said Anne.

Denis turned towards her; she really did look wretched. He abandoned
himself hopelessly, fatalistically to his destiny. This was what came of
action, of doing something decisive. If only he'd just let things drift!
If only...

"I shall miss your conversation," said Mr. Scogan.

Mary looked at the clock again. "I think perhaps you ought to go and
pack," she said.

Obediently Denis left the room. Never again, he said to himself, never
again would he do anything decisive. Camlet, West Bowlby, Knipswich for
Timpany, Spavin Delawarr; and then all the other stations; and then,
finally, London. The thought of the journey appalled him. And what on
earth was he going to do in London when he got there? He climbed wearily
up the stairs. It was time for him to lay himself in his coffin.

The car was at the door--the hearse. The whole party had assembled to
see him go. Good-bye, good-bye. Mechanically he tapped the barometer
that hung in the porch; the needle stirred perceptibly to the left. A
sudden smile lighted up his lugubrious face.

"'It sinks and I am ready to depart,'" he said, quoting Landor with an
exquisite aptness. He looked quickly round from face to face. Nobody had
noticed. He climbed into the hearse.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Crome Yellow, by Aldo