The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his conscience.
"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.
"Or a landslip," suggested Sam Buzza.
"Or a paroxysm of Nature," said Mr.Moggridge (though nobody knew what he meant).
"Or the end of the world," hazarded Mr.Goodwyn-Sandys.
"I beg your pardon," interposed Mrs.Buzza timidly, "but I think it may be my husband." "Is your husband a volcano, madam ?" snapped Mr.Goodwyn-Sandys, rather sharply.
Mrs.Buzza might have answered "Yes," with some colour of truth; but she merely said, "I think it must be his double-bass.

My husband is apt in hours of depression to seek the consolation of that instrument." "But, my dear madam, what is the tune ?" "I think," she faltered, "I am not sure, but I rather think, it is the 'Dead March' in _Saul_." There was no doubt of it.

The notes by this time vibrated piteously through the party-wall, and with their awful solemnity triumphed over all conversation.

Tones became hushed, as though in the presence of death; and the Vicar, in his desperate attempts to talk, found his voice chained without mercy to the slow foot of the dirge.

He tried to laugh.
"Really, this is too absurd--ha! ha! _Tum-tum-tibby-tum_." The effort ended in ghastly failure.