His
affection for her, conceited and selfish though it was, was the most
genuine thing in him. For three-quarters of the year he forgot her,
but when life went badly he thought of her again--not that he
expected to get anything out of her, but she was good to him and she
knew nothing about his life, two fine bases for safety.
"What have they been doing to her, those damned hypocrites, I
wonder," was his thought. He admired, feared, and despised his
sisters. "All that stuff about God" frightened him in spite of
himself, and he knew, in his soul, that Anne was no hypocrite.
He rang the bell and faced Martha. He had dressed himself with some
care and was altogether more tidy just then, having a new mistress
who cared about outside appearances. Also, having been sober for
nearly two months, he looked a gentleman.
"Is my niece at home?" he asked, blinking because he was frightened
of Martha.
She did not seem to be prepared to let him in.
"Miss Maggie has been very ill," she said, frowning at him.
"Ill?" That really hurt him. He stammered, "Why? . . . When?"
She moved aside then for him to pass into the hall.
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