Lewis and Irene: A Novel

The morning papers predicted mist with occasional showers from the Atlantic. In spite of this the morning presented a cloudless sky, though it had been a little late in producing it. The Paris sycamores persisted in their homage to the autumn; hardly were their leaves swept up than it had to be done again.

"Fifteen and fifteen, thirty," went on Lewis, catching sight of a beautiful outward curling beard which came to join the imperial of his next-door neighbour, the general, each of whose statements began with the expression: "Upon my soul and honour ...!"

It was the first funeral since the return from the holidays. Nobody had yet had time to get back their pallor; from starched collars and mourning dresses protruded the tanned cheeks and sunburnt hands of the congregation.

Whilst the black-moustached undertaker's men were emptying the contents of the hearse on to the bier and carrying the be-ribboned wreaths and other floral expressions of regret one by one into the church, the organ, like a concertina in the hands of some inebriated and tearful sailor, sent its gigantic windy harmonies soaring amongst the church hangings, beneath the vaulted roof and right out into the street. The beadles with their glittering halberds pierced like absinthe spoons, towered above all the bald heads. The footmen of the deceased, in their amethystine livery, and holding their top-hats in their hands, added to the majesty of the scene. One felt that the least touch of sorrow would have impaired and the least incivility have shattered the good humour of this obscure gathering of men and women in their common enjoyment of the taste of the morning, of toothpaste and of not being dead.