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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
91
"What
utter
waste!"
I
ejaculated.
"Waste?"
"Yes--utter
waste
and
foolishness.
Foolishness,
not
to
have
bought
a
few
little
comforts,
waste
of
the
money,
and
waste
of
the
clothes.
Is
there
any
meaning,
sense,
or
use
whatever
in
burying
a
good
black
silk
dress?"
"It
would
be
a
scandal
not
to
be
buried
decently,"
she
replied,
manifestly
surprised
at
my
warmth,
"and
the
neighbours
respect
her
much
more
now
that
they
know
what
nice
clothes
she
had
bought
for
her
funeral.
Nothing
is
wanting.
I
even
found
a
box
with
a
gold
brooch
in
it,
and
a
bracelet."
"I
suppose,
then,
as
many
of
her
belongings
as
will
go
into
the
coffin
will
be
buried
too,
in
order
to
still
further
impress
the
neighbours?"
I
asked--"her
feather
bed,
for
instance,
and
anything
else
of
use
and
value?"
"No,
only
what
she
has
on,
and
the
brushes
and
combs
and
towels
that
were
used
in
dressing
her."
"How
ugly
and
how
useless!"
I
said
with
a
shiver
of
disgust.
"It
is
the
custom,"
was
her
tranquil
reply.
Suddenly
an
unpleasant
thought
struck
me,
and
I
burst
out
emphatically,
"Nothing
but
a
shroud
is
to
be
put
on
me."
"Oh
no,"
she
said,
looking
up
at
me
with
a
face
meant
to
be
full
of
the
most
reassuring
promises
of
devotion,
"the
gracious
lady
may
be
quite
certain
that
if
I
am
still
here
she
will
have
on
her
most
beautiful
ball
dress
and
finest
linen,
and
that
the
whole
neighbourhood
shall
see
for
themselves
how
well
Herrschaften
know
what
is
due
to
them."
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