But in
a third, he was in the smoking-room, fallen into the leather chair, his
arm resting on the table and his head bowed upon it.
After the funeral, which took place from the house, Vandover drove back
alone in the hired carriage to his home. He would have paid the driver,
but the other told him that the undertaker looked out for that. Vandover
watched him a moment as he started his horses downhill, the brake as it
scraped against the tire making a noise like the yelping of a dog. Then
he turned and faced the house. It was near four o'clock in the
afternoon, and everything about the house was very quiet. All the
curtains were down except in one of the rooms upstairs. The butler had
already opened these windows and was airing the room. Vandover could
hear him moving about, sweeping up, rearranging the furniture, making up
the bed again. In front of him, between the horse-block and the front
door, one or two smilax leaves were still fallen, and a tuberose,
already yellow. Behind him in the street he had already noticed the
marks of the wheels of the hearse where it had backed up to the curb.
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