She caught his arm. "Uncle Mathew, what are you going to do? Where
will you live? Take my three hundred pounds if it will help you. I
don't want it just now. Keep it for me."
He had a moment of resolute, clear-sighted honesty. "No, my dear, if
I had it it would go in a week. I can't keep money; I never could.
I'm really better without any. I'm all right. You'll never get rid
of me--don't you fear. We've got more in common than you think,
although you're a good girl and I've gone to pieces a bit. All the
same there's plenty worse than me. Your aunt, for all her religion,
is damned difficult for a plain man to get along with. Most people
would find me better company, after all. One last word, Maggie."
He bent down and whispered to her. "Don't you go getting caught by
that sweep who runs their chapel up in London. He's a humbug if ever
there was one--you mark my words. I know a thing or two. He's done
your aunts a lot of harm, and he'll have his dirty fingers on you if
you let him."
So he departed, his last kiss mingled with the usual aroma of whisky
and tobacco, his last attitude, as he turned away, that strange
confusion of assumed dignity and natural genial stupidity that was
so especially his.
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