“All her executors? Are there others? I thought that probably you and myself—”

There are two executors beside yourself, and it is not a simple will. Not simple at all. I think you should know its contents as soon as possible.”

“Well—if you say so.”

“I think it would be best. I shall inform the others. Here, then, at three?”

“As you please.”

Solly had no time to reflect on this arrangement, for several people were waiting to say good-bye. Dean Knapp and his wife approached last, each holding an arm of Miss Puss Pottinger, who wore the rumpled appearance of one who has been put into her outside clothes by hands other than her own. One foot was not completely down into her overshoe, and she lurched as she walked.

“We shall see Miss Pottinger home,” said the Dean, smiling but keeping a jailor’s grip on Auntie Puss.

“Solly, dear boy,” cried that lady, and breaking free from the Dean she flung herself upon Solly’s bosom, weeping and scrabbling at his coat. It became clear that she wanted to kiss him. He stooped and suffered this, damp and rheumy as it was; then, taking her by the shoulders, he passed her back to Mrs Knapp. With a loud hiccup Auntie Puss collapsed, and almost bore the Dean’s wife to the floor. When she had been picked up, she was led away, sobbing and murmuring, “Poor Louisa’s last At Home—shall never forget—” They were the last to go.

“Well, well, well,” said Cobbler, strolling in from the hall, when he had helped the Dean to drag Auntie Puss down a rather icy walk, and boost her into a car; “quite overcome with grief. Sad.”

“She was drunk,” said Solly. “What on earth did you give her?”

“The poor old soul was badly in need of bracing,” said Cobbler. “I gave her a sherry with a touch of brandy in it, and it did the trick. But would she let well alone? She would not. She kept coming back. Was I to refuse her? I tried her once without the brandy, but she passed back her glass and said, “This isn’t the same.” Well—she had seven. I couldn’t put her on the Indian List; she’d have made a scene. Whatever she feels like tomorrow, I am pure as the driven snow. Never say No to a woman; my lifelong principle.”

He was helping Veronica to clear up the mess. Paper napkins were everywhere. Dirty plates covered the top of the piano. Cake had been ground into the carpet. The pillow of white roses in Mrs Bridgetower’s chair had been pushed under it by the callous Cousin Jim, who wanted to sit down and had no feeling for symbolism.

“For heaven’s sake leave that,” said Solly. “Let Ethel and Doris cope with it.”

“ ‘Fraid the girls are a bit overcome,” said Cobbler. “They told me they were good for nothing but bed. Odd phrase, considering everything.”

“Humphrey, what did you do?” said Veronica.

“Me? Not a thing. Just my duty, as I saw it. People kept asking for drinks and I obliged them. Really, Solly, those Hansen relatives of yours are something special. Hollow legs, every one of them.”

“Was there enough?”

“Just managed. Do you know that there were two hundred and forty-seven souls here, and not one of them was a teetotaller? I always count; it’s automatic with me. I count the house at every Cathedral service; the Dean likes to know how he’s pulling. I consider that the affair was a credit to your late Mum, but we nearly ran out of swipes. It was a close thing.”

He sat down at the grand piano, and sang with great expression, to the tune of the popular ballad Homing—

“Humphrey, stop it!” said Veronica. “If you must do something, will you get me a drink? I’m completely done up.”

Cobbler got them all drinks, and while Solly and Veronica sat by the fire, trying to forget the trials and miseries of the past few days, he played Bach choral preludes on the old piano, to heal their wounded spirits.

Mr Snelgrove completed the reading of Mrs Bridgetower’s will the following afternoon, just as the library clock struck four. He had enjoyed himself. Modern custom did not often require him to read a will and he felt that there was something splendidly professional and lawyer-like about doing so. When a testator is dead he is in the hands of God; certainly this was the belief of Mr Snelgrove who was, among other dignified things, chancellor of the diocese of which St Nicholas’ was the Cathedral; but the testator’s affairs on earth remain in the hands of his lawyer. There is drama in such a position, and Mr Snelgrove greatly relished it. He blew his nose and removed his pince-nez in order to rub his old eyes.

The setting in which Mrs Bridgetower’s will had been read was eyerything that the legal ham Mr Snelgrove could have wished. Outside the windows a light snow was falling from a leaden, darkening sky. Inside the library a wood fire burned, its light being reflected in the leaded glass of the old-fashioned book-jails which lined the walls. The room was comfortable, dark, stuffy and rather depressing. It was Christmas Eve.

His listeners looked suitably grave and impressed. Dean Knapp, sunk in a leather armchair, stroked his brow reflectively, like a man who cannot believe that he has heard aright. Miss Puss Pottinger sat bolt upright on an armless chair, refusing to yield to the splitting headache which seemed to possess her whole small being; from time to time her gorge rose sourly and searingly within her, but she was a soldier’s daughter, and she forcibly gulped it down again. The fumes from Solly’s pipe were a great trial to her. He was perched on the arm of a large chair in which Veronica was sitting. It was Solly who was first to speak.

“I think I’ve got the drift of the will, but I’m not quite sure,” said he. “Could you let us have the meaning of it in simple language?”

Mr Snelgrove was happy to do so. Interpreting legal scripture to laymen was the part of his profession which he liked best.

“Shorn of technicality,” said he, “the meaning of the will is this: all of your late mother’s estate is left in trust to her executors—you, her son, Solomon Bridgetower—you, Laura Pottinger, spinster—you, Jevon Knapp, as Dean of St Nicholas’ Cathedral. That estate, as outlined here, consists of this house and its contents and considerable holdings in investments. You, Solomon Bridgetower, are to continue to occupy the house, which has always been your home, but it is the property of the trust, and you may not dispose of it. But the income from the estate is to be devoted to the educational project which your late mother has outlined.”

“You mean, I don’t get any money?” said Solly.

“You get a legacy of one hundred dollars,” said the lawyer.

“Yes, but I mean—the investments, and the money that brought in my Mother’s own income, and all that—I don’t quite follow—?”

“That money is all to be devoted to the education, or training, of some young woman resident in this city of Salterton, who is desirous of following a career in the arts. The young woman is to be chosen by you, the trustees. She must be not more than twenty-one at the time she is chosen, and you are to be responsible for her maintenance and training, in the best circumstances you can devise, until she reaches the age of twenty-five. She is to be maintained abroad in order, as your mother says, that she may bring back to Canada some of the intangible treasures of European tradition. That phrase, of course, rules out any possibility of her being trained in the States. And when she is twenty-five, you are to choose another beneficiary of the trust. And so on, unless the conditions under which the trust exists are terminated.”