She felt that
it was wrong to have slept and very wrong to be hungry, but there it
was; she did not pretend to herself that things were other than they
were. In the dining-room she found supper laid out upon the table,
cold beef, potatoes in their jackets, cold beetroot, jelly, and
cheese, and her uncle playing cards on the unoccupied end of the
table in a melancholy manner by himself. She felt that it was wrong
of him to play cards on such an occasion, but the cards were such
dirty grey ones and he obtained obviously so little pleasure from
his amusement that he could not be considered to be wildly
abandoning himself to riot and extravagance.
She felt pleasure in his company; for the first time since her
father's death she was a little frightened and uneasy. She might
even have gone to him and cried on his shoulder had he given her any
encouragement, but he did not speak to her except to say that he had
already eaten. He was still a little sulky with her.
When she had finished her meal she sat in her accustomed chair by
the fire, her head propped on her hands, looking into the flame, and
there, half-asleep, half-awake, memories, conversations, long-
vanished scenes trooped before her eyes as though they were bidding
her a long farewell.
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