will do so the day after tomorrow, when he sees
me in black. For the present, it's almost as if
Mother weren't really dead. The funeral will bring
it home to me, put an official seal on it, so to
speak. . . .

I took the two-o'clock bus. It was a blazing hot
afternoon. I'd lunched, as usual, at Céleste's restau-
rant. Everyone was most kind, and Céleste said to
me, "There's no one like a mother." When I left
they came with me to the door. It was something
of a rush, getting away, as at the last moment I had
to call in at Emmanuel's place to borrow his black
tie and mourning band. He lost his uncle a few
months ago.

I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my
hurrying like that, what with the glare off the road
and from the sky, the reek of gasoline, and the
jolts, that made me feel so drowsy. Anyhow, I
slept most of the way. When I woke I was leaning
against a soldier; he grinned and asked me if I'd
come from a long way off, and I just nodded, to
cut things short. I wasn't in a mood for talking.

The Home is a little over a mile from the village.
I went there on foot. I asked to be allowed to see
Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me I must
see the warden first, He wasn't free, and I had to
wait a bit. The doorkeeper chatted with me while

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