Before they
could speak any more there was a knock on the door and Uncle Mathew
came in. He stood there looking both ashamed of himself and
obstinate.
He most certainly did not appear at his best, a large piece of
plaster on his right cheek showing where he had cut himself with his
razor, and a shabby and tight black suit (it was his London suit,
and had lain crumpled disastrously in his hand-bag) accentuating the
undue roundness of his limbs; his eyes blinked and his mouth
trembled a little at the corners. He was obviously afraid of his
sister and flung his niece a watery wink as though to implore her
silence as to his various misdemeanours.
Brother and sister shook hands, and Maggie, as she watched them, was
surprised to feel within herself a certain sympathy with her uncle.
Aunt Anne's greeting was gentle and kind but infinitely distant, and
had something of the tenderness with which the Pope washes the feet
of the beggars in Rome.
"I'm so glad that you were here," she said in her soft voice. "It
must have been such a comfort to Maggie."
"He has been, indeed, Aunt Anne," Maggie broke in eagerly.
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