He walked home, reflecting on the range of moods which accompanied any regular route, such as his. Item one, Miss Macey. He could see her happily married to such a chap as that ex-pilot, Stratton. Item two. MacFalkland. When the University could afford a full-scale Socio-Psychology Department, MacFalkland would be the director. He, Burke, would live in the imminence of that boisterous voice and sudden back-slap. The third item was more difficult to define: a vague, almost sad sense that a bright light had winked in his life--and gone out. Bedelia called from the side porch. "Want tea?" He came around the house. "Your car's been hauled to the garage. The man estimated it would cost around a hundred dollars." "Gosh." He munched a bit of orange cake. "I sponged your dinner clothes. With alcohol--for the lipstick. And sent them to the cleaner this morning." "Thank you, Bedelia." "There were pieces of fern in the pocket." "Fern? In the pocket?" "I didn't know what it was, either. I took it to Alice Beardsley.
