you can't see me. I wasn't pleased with my funeral sermon; it was very
gloomy--very. I never was so depressed in my life.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_To_ FREDERIK.] Do you know what I should like to say
to your uncle?

PETER. I know.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. I hope at least you'll care for the parish poor as
your uncle did--and keep on with _some_ of his charities.

PETER. [_Putting his hand on_ REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY'S _shoulder._] That's
all attended to. I arranged all that with Frederik. He must look after my
charities.

FREDERIK. I might as well tell you now--you needn't look to me. It's Uncle
Peter's fault if your charities are cut off.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Half-doubtingly._] It doesn't seem possible that
he made no arrangements to continue his good works. [FREDERIK _remains
stolid._ REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY _puts back his watch after glancing at it._]
Just thirty minutes to make a call. [_Goes into the hall to put on his
overshoes, coat, &c., leaving_ PETER'S _hand extended in the air._

COLONEL LAWTON. [_Rising._] I must be toddling. [_Pauses._] It's queer,
Frederik, how things turn out in this world. [_He stands, thinking matters
over--cigar in mouth, his hand on his chin._

PETER. [_Slipping his hand through_ COLONEL LAWTON'S _arm. They seem to
look each other in the eye._] You were perfectly right about it, Thomas, I