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.
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