During those two years he had enlarged his connections. He was earning more money. Individuals, somewhat of unkempt appearance, whom Meg disapproved of thoroughly, often made their way up the stairs to the young man's rooms. The peals of laughter, the loud talk emerging from the sanctum, confirmed Meg in judging these visitors foolish company for her hero. The child grew hot with angry apprehension when the bell rang shortly after their coming, and Jessie would answer it with tumblers of whisky and lemons. On letting out these friends Meg thought that Mr. Standish usually looked excited, his eyes brighter, his manner more expansive. The child grew restless, alert, suspicious. She did not disguise her feelings to Mr. Standish. Why did these rough men come drinking his whisky? She would break into fierce denunciations against drink.
"Madam"—Mrs. Browne—"always said she was poor. Why was she poor? Because she was always a-sipping and drinking. He'd keep being poor too."
Often Meg's tones, staccato with prophetic denunciation, would falter at the picture she evoked.
Mr. Standish listened sometimes with an amused and indulgent good humor that exasperated Meg; sometimes an uneasy qualm was perceptible in his voice as he admitted that Meg was wise; sometimes he assumed a superior tone of disapproval that silenced her for the time, but left her more than ever under the shadow of a vague and sorrowful apprehension.
One Sunday afternoon Mr. Standish emerged from his room ready to sally forth. Meg appeared out of her shadowy corner.
"Going out?" she asked shortly.
He nodded, smiling down with benign amusement. He seemed enveloped in a holiday brightness.
"Going with those horrid men?" she resumed, throwing her words out with sorrowful brevity.
He nodded, and drew out his watch. He was apparently in a mood to be entertained.