It isn’t. “Want to see the upstairs?” “Sure. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Manning’s proposal of marriage and finding she was thinking of the dance. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents.
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