_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon.
Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is
a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed
cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches,
biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little
pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole
room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations
denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_
PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her
face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that
this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has
evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice
above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.
MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the
drawing room.
PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the
door.
MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into
the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to
admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes
the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very
tenderly._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.
MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No.
MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round.
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He
shakes hands with them both._
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!
EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She
looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than
usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though
his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible
for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._
BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great
credit . . great credit.
_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_
TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his
formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_.
TRENCHARD. Have you the right time?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so
. . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._]
Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't
mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes
all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see
him before . . before . .
TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he
asked for me.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . .
_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in
the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.
_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula
and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as
unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't
very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the
successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of
diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters
or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and
he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even
upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure
upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners
of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is
abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which
each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable.
Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the
appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._
HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD
_conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_;
BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS.
VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many
happy memories of her husband_.
BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.
EMILY. No, of course not.
_Apologetically, she sits by the table._
TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh?
HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on
business.
TRENCHARD. Really!
_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This
is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to
his mother._
EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . .
_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_.
TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?
DENIS. Yes.
BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY. What?
BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a
shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._
BOOTH. Have a glass of wine?
MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please.
_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this
occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his
face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No
one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._
TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS.