I'll go and see him in the morning. I am glad I'm
back. Well, I was telling you . . . Where was I? . . . about the
porter--"
Something drove Maggie to say:
"I'd rather have a good grocer who's a dissenter than a bad one who
goes to church--"
"Maggie," said Paul, "you don't know what you're saying. You don't
realise what the effect in the parish would be."
"Of course she doesn't," said Grace consolingly. "She'll understand
in time. As I was saying, I was so angry that I caught the old man
by the arm and I said to him, 'If you think you're paid to lean up
against a wall and not do your duty you're mightily mistaken, and if
you aren't careful I'll report you--that's what I'll do,' and he
said--what were his exact words? I'll remember in a minute. I know
he was very insulting, and the taxi-cabman--why, Paul, where's
mother's picture?"
Grace's eyes were directed to a large space high above the
mantelpiece. Maggie remembered that there had been a big faded oil-
painting of an old lady in a shawl and spectacles, a hideous affair
she had thought it. That was now reposing in the attic. Why had she
not known that it was a picture of Paul's mother? She would never
have touched it had she known.
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