She looked at Thurston; he had coarsened very much since she had
seen him last. He was fatter, his cheeks stained with an unnaturally
high colour, his eyes brighter and sharper and yet sensual too. He
was smarter than he had been, his white bow tie stiff and shapely,
his cuffs clean and shining, his hair very carefully brushed back
from his high and bony forehead. His sharp eyes darted all over the
building, and Maggie felt as though at any moment she would be
discovered. Crashaw looked more like a decrepit monkey than ever,
huddled up in his chair, his back bow-shaped. He breathed into his
hands as though he wanted to warm them, and looked at nobody. Miss
Avies Maggie could not see clearly.
Her eyes wandered over the audience. She saw many townspeople whom
she knew, and she realised, for the first time, that tomorrow
everywhere it would be said that the Rector's wife had been at the
Revival meeting.
And how different an audience from the old London one. Every one had
come on this occasion to see a show, and it was certainly a show
that they were going to see. Maggie had entered during a pause, and
all the faces that were there wore that look of expectation that
demands the rising of the curtain.
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