“Dead.”

They stood.

Perhaps, thought Lovell, the ghost of the dead alderman hovered above the virgin fields of rose-pink blotting-paper, the quill pens, the horsehair, the sporting tweeds, the gents’ lightweight suitings, the bored, amused, restless or sorrowful thoughts of the mourners. Farrow had been a quiet little man, his public interest largely confined to the disposal of rural refuse, but he must, thought Lovell, have had some private life. Generously his imagination bestowed upon Farrow a gipsy mistress, three illegitimate children, a conscience racked by knowledge of secret pilfering from the parish funds, and a blighted ambition as an amateur actor. After all, people don’t just live and die as elementary school children, ratepayers and alderman, he reasoned. Even he, at twenty-two, had had Experiences. . . .

The silence was over. The Councillors sat down. The ghost of Alderman Farrow passed, officially, out of the Hall for ever. The Cold Harbour Division proceeded to consider the nomination of his successor. The alderman is dead; long live the alderman.

“It’s a foregone conclusion surely,” said the Yorkshire Record man, as seven or eight Councillors pushed their way out against their colleagues’ knees and made for a door.

“That so? Who?” asked Mail, the cynic. Too clever by half, thought Lovell.

“Carne, of course.”

“Carne?” If there had been a spittoon, Mail would have spat.

“Gryson told me.”

“Oh, Gryson! Army and county stick together.”

“Carne’s not county.”

“Lord Sedgmire’s son-in-law?”

“Runaway match. And she’s in an asylum.”

“Private mental home, you mean. At Harrogate. He pays ten guineas a week, they say—not counting extras.”

“It would have been cheaper to divorce her when she was carrying on with young Lord Knaresborough.”

“They say there was nothing in that. The kid’s supposed to be his anyway, and queer.”

“Mental?”

“Tenpence halfpenny in the shilling. Midge’s never gone to school.”

“They’re taking a darn long time.”

“Division. You’ll see. Peacock will nominate Astell.”

“Astell? The socialist chap? But he’s T.B. isn’t he?”

“A corpse would be good enough to beat Carne if Snaith’s got his knife into him. They say he loves him like a weasel loves a rabbit. Besides, Carne’s failing, and they don’t like to county-court an alderman.”

“Failing?”

“Have you seen Maythorpe? Crumbling to pieces over their heads. He lent the garden and drawing-room for that Conservative feast last year. Always sucking up to the gentry, is Carne. Big drawing-room with painted ceiling, gilt and plaster flaking down on every one’s best hats. Huge candelabra, no candles. Stables full, though. He can’t resist a good horse.”

“Well, he deals in ’em, doesn’t he?”

“Deals? Aye. But you can’t make on horses what you lose on sheep these days.