‘You went, I know, aunt.’

‘I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.’

‘He died the night before we went to Canterbury?’ said I. My aunt nodded.

‘No one can harm him now,’ she said. ‘It was a vain threat.’

We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. ‘Better here than in the streets,’ said my aunt. ‘He was born here.’

We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well, where the service was read consigning it to the dust.

‘Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,’ said my aunt, as we walked back to the chariot,