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“That’s how it goes,” said Mr Hette, stirring his black coffee

They all waited the proper interval A little watch ticked inside Mrs Hette; so on with so else You had to lay the dead out properly, ords and silences, before you went on to the next, alphabetical or not With a shuttering of eyes and a resting of hands about your coffee plate you showed that it was a subject of much solemnity and worry to you

Mrs Spaulding took advantage of the pause to offer more cake to everyone

Mr Hette sucked his pipe “Do you kno long since we last seen you people? Twenty years Traveling and all When we hit town today we didn’t think we’d find you robbers alive!” Everybody laughed; it was nice to frost death up a bit “What’s happened in town since we left?”

“Remember Bill Samuelson? He died”

“What of?”

“Pneu

“Diphtheria,” said Mrs Spaulding

Mr Spaulding looked at Mr Hette “Helen Ferry, Tom Foley, Henry Masterson, all them died”

“What ever happened to—ah—Alaine Phillips?” Mr Hette looked cautiously from the corners of his eyes, at his wife His wife’s eyes snapped

“Alaine Phillips?” said Mr Spaulding “Why, didn’t you hear? She was divorced the spring after you married Lita here, and went away to Ohio”

“Oh,” said Mr Hette

Mr Hette’s wife glared at him

“Alaine died the next year, however,” added Mr Spaulding

“What!” cried Mr Hette