The room was whirling round Mary Postgate, but she found herself quite steady in the midst of it.
'Yes,' she said. 'It's a great pity he didn't die in action after he had killed somebody.'
'He was killed instantly. That's one comfort,' Miss Fowler went on.
'But Wynn says the shock of a fall kills a man at once—whatever happens to the tanks,' quoted Mary.
The room was coming to rest now. She heard Miss Fowler say impatiently, 'But why can't we cry, Mary?' and herself replying, 'There's nothing to cry for. He has done his duty as much as Mrs. Grant's son did.'
'And when he died, she came and cried all the morning,' said Miss Fowler. 'This only makes me feel tired—terribly tired. Will you help me to bed, please, Mary?—And I think I'd like the hot-water bottle.'
So Mary helped her and sat beside, talking of Wynn in his riotous youth.
'I believe,' said Miss Fowler suddenly, 'that old people and young people slip from under a stroke like this. The middle-aged feel it most.'
'I expect that's true,' said Mary, rising. 'I'm going to put away the things in his room now. Shall we wear mourning?'
'Certainly not,' said Miss Fowler. 'Except, of course, at the funeral. I can't go. You will. I want you to arrange about his being buried here. What a blessing it didn't happen at Salisbury!'
Every one, from the Authorities of the Flying Corps to the Rector, was most kind and sympathetic.
