Then Mr. Warlock on his side seemed to like her uncle. That was an
extraordinary thing. Or was he only being friendly because he was
happy? No, she remembered his face as he had joined them that
evening. He had not been happy then. She liked him the more because
she knew that he needed help . . . The meal, produced at last by the
poor little waiter, was very merry. The food was not wonderful--the
thick pea-soup was cold, the sole bones and skin, the roast beef
tepid and the apple-tart heavy. The men drank whiskies and sodas,
and Maggie noticed that her uncle drank very little. And then (with
apologies to Maggie) they smoked cigars, and she sat before the
dismal fire in an old armchair with a hole in it.
Martin Warlock talked in a most delightful way about his travels,
and Uncle Mathew asked him questions that were not, after all, so
stupid. What had happened to him? Had Maggie always undervalued him,
or was it that he was sober now and clear-headed? His fat round
thighs seemed stronger, his hands seemed cleaner, the veins in his
face were not so purple. She remembered the night when he had come
into her room.
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