hadn’t been to mass for years now but he had never allowed the narrowness and prejudice of priests who after all were human and with human fear and cowardice and prejudice to destroy his faith. Reverently, Mimi made the sign of the cross. …
The morning passed before she had strength enough to rise. She talked over with Mrs. Daquin, Mrs. Adams and Mr. Hunter plans for the funeral. Jean’s sister in New York whom Mimi had never seen had been telegraphed and had wired she was leaving for Atlanta at once. They decided the services were to be held on Friday. Mrs. Daquin thought it best to have a Protestant service but Mimi was obdurate, immovable. This was the last thing she could do for Jean and she was determined that it should be done, if possible.
Late in the afternoon, in the lull of visitors who were called home by household duties, Carl came. To both it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours before they had been so happy together in that very room.
“There’s no use of my saying I’m sorry, Mimi. You know it—I loved your father better than anybody except you. He seemed to understand me—I—I—” His sudden rush of feeling made it impossible for him to speak. His eyes filled with tears as he touched Mimi’s hand, gently and but for a second.
“Yes, Carl, I know …” she whispered. …
By Thursday evening Mimi felt she could no longer stand the torture of greeting people, answering the same questions over and over again, performing the many additional tasks the death had brought. Mrs. Daquin seemed actually to be enjoying after a fashion the new importance which Jean’s death had brought to her as his widow. Not that she let it show on her face. She saw to it her eyes bore the appearance of much weeping and her general air was that of a Christian martyr