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On the train, going back to college, ten days later, this regret
(though it was as much an annoyance as a regret) recurred to his mind,
and a feeling developed within him that the new quarter of the
cemetery was in bad taste--not architecturally or sculpturally
perhaps, but in presumption: it seemed to flaunt a kind of parvenu
ignorance, as if it were actually pleased to be unaware that all the
aristocratic and really important families were buried in the old
section.
The annoyance gave way before a recollection of the sweet mournfulness
of his mother's face, as she had said good-bye to him at the station,
and of how lovely she looked in her mourning. He thought of Lucy,
whom he had seen only twice, and he could not help feeling that in
these quiet interviews he had appeared to her as tinged with heroism--
she had shown, rather than said, how brave she thought him in his
sorrow. But what came most vividly to George's mind, during these
retrospections, was the despairing face of his Aunt Fanny. Again and
again he thought of it; he could not avoid its haunting.


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