imprisoned some fine-fibred grief, as the most hackneyed words may
become the vehicle of rare meanings; but for the most part the
endless alignment of monuments seemed to embody those easy
generalizations about death that do not disturb the repose of the
living. Glennard's eye, as he followed the way indicated to him,
had instinctively sought some low mound with a quiet headstone.
He had forgotten that the dead seldom plan their own houses, and
with a pang he discovered the name he sought on the cyclopean base
of a granite shaft rearing its aggressive height at the angle of
two avenues.

"How she would have hated it!" he murmured.

A bench stood near and he seated himself. The monument rose
before him like some pretentious uninhabited dwelling; he could
not believe that Margaret Aubyn lay there. It was a Sunday
morning and black figures moved among the paths, placing flowers
on the frost-bound hillocks. Glennard noticed that the
neighboring graves had been thus newly dressed; and he fancied a
blind stir of expectancy through the sod, as though the bare
mounds spread a parched surface to that commemorative rain. He
rose presently and walked back to the entrance of the cemetery.
Several greenhouses stood near the gates, and turning in at the
first he asked for some flowers.

"Anything in the emblematic line?" asked the anaemic man behind
the dripping counter.

Glennard shook his head.