ers rustled in the breeze
from the half-opened window, and a fire, overburdened with the weight
of black coal, made frantic little spurts of resistance.

A white cloth was laid on the table, and there were glasses and knives
and forks. A highly-coloured portrait of her late Majesty Queen
Victoria confronted a long-legged horse desperately winning a race in
which he had apparently no competitors. There was a wall-paper of
imitation marble and a broken-down book-case with some torn paper
editions languishing upon it. Beyond the open window there was a purple
haze and a yellow mist--also a bell rang and carts rattled over the
cobbles. The waiter shut out these sights and sounds, gave the
tablecloth a stroke with his dirty hand, and left the room.

They continued their cheerful conversation, Martin laughing at nothing
at all, and Maggie smiling, and Uncle Mathew stroking his mouth and
sharpening his eyes and standing, in his uneasy fashion, first on one
leg and then on the other. Maggie realised that her uncle was trying to
be most especially pleasant to young Warlock. She wondered why; she
also remembered what he had said to her about Martin's father ... No,
he had changed. She could not follow his motives as she had once been
able to do. Then he had simply been a foolish, drunken, but
kindly-intentioned old man.

Then Mr. Warlock on his side seemed to like her uncle. That was an
extraordinary thing. Or was he only being friendly because he was
happy? No, she remembered his face as he had joined them that evening.
He had not been happy then. She liked him the more because she knew
that he needed help ... The meal, produced at last by the poor little
waiter, was very merry. The food was not wonderful--the thick pea-soup
was cold, the sole bones and skin, the roast beef tepid and the
apple-tart heavy. The men drank whiskies and sodas, and Maggie noticed
that her uncle drank very little. And then (with apologies to Maggie)
they smoked cigars, and she sat before the dismal fire in an old
armchair with a hole in it.

Martin Warlock talked in a most delightful way about his travels, and
Uncle Mathew asked him questions that were not, after all, so stupid.
What had happened to him? Had Maggie always undervalued him, or was it
that he was sober now and clear-headed? His fat round thighs seemed
stronger, his hands seemed cleaner, the veins in his face were not so
purple. She remembered the night when he had come into her room.