Brother." But I caught him--I caught
him three times--just raising his near eyelid above his drooped arm
and peeping at Furnival and the other pressmen to see that they
weren't missing him.

It must have been then that Burton saw, though he says now he
didn't. He won't own up to having seen him. We had hidden ourselves
behind the mourners in the chancel and he swears that he didn't see
anybody but Antigone, and that he only saw her because, in spite of
her efforts to hide too, she stood out so; she was so tall, so white
and golden. Her head was bowed with--well, with grief, I think, but
also with what I've no doubt now was a sort of shame. I wondered:
Did she share her father's illusion? Or had she seen through it? Did
she see the awful absurdity of the draped figure at her side? Did
she realize the gulf that separated him from the undying dead? Did
she know that we couldn't have stood his being there but for our
certainty that somewhere above us and yet with us, from his high
seat among the Undying, Ford Lankester was looking on and enjoying
more than we could enjoy--with a divine, immortal mirth--the rich,
amazing comedy of him. Charles Wrackham there--at _his_ funeral!

But it wasn't till it was all over that he came out really strong.
We were sitting together in the parlor of the village inn, he and
Antigone, and Grevill Burton and Furnival and I, with an hour on our
hands before our train left. I had ordered tea on Antigone's
account, for I saw that she was famished. They had come down from
Devonshire that day. They had got up at five to catch the early
train from Seaton Junction, and then they'd made a dash across
London for the 12.30 from Marylebone; and somehow they'd either
failed or forgotten to lunch. Antigone said she hadn't cared about
it. Anyhow, there she was with us. We were all feeling that relief
from nervous tension which comes after a funeral. Furnival had his
stylo out and was jotting down a few impressions. Wrackham had edged
up to him and was sitting, you may say, in Furny's pocket while he
explained to us that his weak health would have prevented him from
coming, but that _he had to come_. He evidently thought that the
funeral couldn't have taken place without him--not with any decency,
you know. And then Antigone said a thing for which I loved her
instantly.

"_I_ oughtn't to have come," she said. "I felt all the time I
oughtn't. I hadn't any right."

That drew him.

"You had your right