The funeral service was over. The clergyman, his surplice crinkling in the October wind, had returned to the chapel. By twos and threes the mourners were deserting the graveside. Ahead of them, unrecognized except by Wilberforce, went Rear-Admiral Billy, his head high, his heart troubled. Soon--felt the admiral--a parson and mourners would gather for him, for an old man who would have to face his God with a promise unfulfilled, with a duty unaccomplished.

The last of the mourners disappeared through the cemetery fates to their conveyances, leaving only Ronnie, Sir Peter, James Wilberforce and the sexton by the grave.

"We'd better take him back to Bruton Street with us," whispered Sir Peter to his son. "The less we delay things, at the present juncture----"

"Ronald, old chap"--Jimmy put a hand on his friend's shoulder,--"pater says he'll drive you home in our car. We've got to get this matter settled, and the sooner we come to some decision----"

"Very well." Ronnie, his face a purposeful mask, turned away from the scarred earth. "The mater's dead," he thought. "Dead. It's my duty to do as she would have done had she lived."

And while the three of them made their way slowly to Sir Peter's Daimler, he fell to resenting that Aliette had effaced herself from Julia's funeral. His mother had wished that he and Aliette should face the world together. His mother's wishes must be carried out, carried out faithfully.