He remembered that he had
apparently liked her. But his father said nothing. There was an
awkward and uncomfortable pause. After supper Mr. Thurston rubbed
his hands, helped Amy Warlock into her cloak, said to the company in
general:
"Good night. Should be a very full meeting to-night . . . Well, well
. . . Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Warlock, I'm sure."
The door was closed, Mrs. Warlock retired into her bedroom; the
house was left to Martin and his father.
Mr. Warlock's room was hideous. It opened, somewhat ironically, out
of Mrs. Warlock's pink drawing-room. A huge and exceedingly ugly
American roll-top desk took up much of the room. There were
bookshelves into which books had been piled. Commentaries on the
Bible, volumes of sermons, pamphlets, tattered copies of old
religious magazines. A bare carpet displayed holes and rents. The
fireplace was grim with dirty pieces of paper and untidy shavings.
In the midst of this disorder there hung over the mantelpiece,
against the faded grey wall-paper, a fine copy of Raphael's
"Transfiguration." Mr. Warlock lighted a candle and the flame
flickered with changing colours upon the picture's surface.
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