He paused, exclaiming: "Why, hello, Connors!" "Why, hello, Mister Brodhead!" Then a long conversation was begun, the policeman standing on the curbstone, one foot resting upon the hub of a wheel, the expressman leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, twirling his whip between his hands.

The expressman told some sort of story, pointing with his elbow toward the house, but the other was incredulous, gravely shaking his head, putting his chin in the air, and closing his eyes.
Inside the house itself there was a hushed and subdued bustling that centred about a particular room.

The undertaker's assistants and the barber called in low voices through the halls for basins of water and towels.

There was a search for the Old Gentleman's best clothes and his clean linen; bureau drawers were opened and shut, closet doors softly closed.

Relatives and friends called and departed or stayed to help.