"They don't say a word about where they buried him," he said.

"Oh well, I imagine-"

"If you died in New York City, where would you be buried?"

"I'm sure they have-"

"No doubt they ship you someplace else," he said. He turned his face to the window. Without his hearing aid he gave an impression of rudeness. He interrupted people and changed the subject willfully and spoke in a particularly loud, flat voice, although normally he was so well-mannered that he caused others to feel awkward. "I never made the acquaintance of Paul's wife," he said, while Justine was still considering cemeteries. "I don't recollect even hearing when he got married. But then he was younger than I of course and moved in different circles. Or perhaps he married late in life. Now if I had known the wife I would have gone up for the funeral, then asked my questions afterwards. But as it is, I hesitated to barge in upon a family affair and immediately put my case. It would look so-it would seem so self-serving. Do you think I did right to wait?"

He had asked her this before. He didn't listen for the answer.

"By now she will be calmer," he said. "Not so likely to break down at any mention of his name."

He folded the clipping suddenly, as if he had decided something. He creased it with one broad yellow thumbnail.

"Justine," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Am I going to be successful?"

She stopped swirling the ice in her cup and looked at him. "Oh," she said. "Why-I'm certain you are. Certainly, Grandfather. Maybe not this time, maybe not right away, but-"

"Truly. Tell me."

"Certainly you will."