to church, and he watched critically, applauded sparingly, and was

darkly offended by any unorthodox play. His convictions upon all

subjects were taciturnly inflexible. He was an obstinate player of

draughts and chess, and an earnest and persistent reader of the

British Weekly. His wife was a pink, short, wilfully smiling,

managing, ingratiating, talkative woman, who was determined to be

pleasant, and take a bright hopeful view of everything, even when it

was not really bright and hopeful. She had large blue expressive eyes

and a round face, and she always spoke of her husband as Harold. She

addressed sympathetic and considerate remarks about the deceased to

Mr. Polly in notes of brisk encouragement. "He was really quite

cheerful at the end," she said several times, with congratulatory

gusto, "quite cheerful."

She made dying seem almost agreeable.

Both these people were resolved to treat Mr. Polly very well, and to

help his exceptional incompetence in every possible way, and after a

simple supper of ham and bread and cheese and pickles and cold apple

tart and small beer had been cleared away, they put him into the

armchair almost as though he was an invalid, and sat on chairs that

made them look down on him, and opened a directive discussion of the

arrangements for the funeral. After all a funeral is a distinct social

opportunity, and rare when you have no family and few relations, and

they did not want to see it spoilt and wasted.

The History of Mr Polly