Roscoe stood blinking, his lip quivering; Edith wept audibly; Mrs.
Sheridan leaned in half collapse against her husband; but Bibbs knew
that his father was the one who cared.
It was over. Men in overalls stepped forward with their shovels,
and Bibbs nodded quickly to Roscoe, making a slight gesture toward
the line of waiting carriages. Roscoe understood--Bibbs would stay
and see the grave filled; the rest were to go. The groups began
to move away over the turf; wheels creaked on the graveled drive;
and one by one the carriages filled and departed, the horses setting
off at a walk. Bibbs gazed steadfastly at the workmen; he knew that
his father kept looking back as he went toward the carriage, and that
was a thing he did not want to see. But after a little while there
were no sounds of wheels or hoofs on the gravel, and Bibbs, glancing
up, saw that every one had gone. A coupe had been left for him,
the driver dozing patiently.
The workmen placed the flowers and wreaths upon the mound and about
it, and Bibbs altered the position of one or two of these, then stood
looking thoughtfully at the grotesque brilliancy of that festal-
seeming hillock beneath the darkening November sky.
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