Her hostess was determined that Ann should grace the board. The latter gave way listlessly. What did it matter? What did anything matter? What——
She took her seat dully, with despair sunk in her eyes.
She sat on her uncle’s right and within his reach. From the opposite side of the table Mrs. Allen regarded her beadily. A plate of beef was given her and butter and bread. Stout was poured into her glass. They bade her eat and drink. She did so obediently. If they had bade her sing, she would have lifted up her voice. She was beaten. She had passed the end of her tether. Her spirit was broken down.
The meal proceeded.
The presence of the Allens was providing a merciful distraction from her estate. She had not the heart to be grateful. It was, she knew, only a temporary release—a postponement, big with hell. Satire was playing with her, as a cat plays with a mouse.
Conversation warmed. The output of geniality was amazing. Righteousness and peace kissed each other.
Aunt Harriet expanded. Uncle Tom broadened. Bob began to laugh indiscriminately. With increasing difficulty, Mr. Allen remembered bygone days.
As the joint reconstruction of a more than usually side-splitting episode was concluded—
“Dearie me,” croaked Aunt Harriet, wiping the tears from her eyes, “ ’ow many years is that ago?”
Mr. Allen regarded Uncle Tom. To survey and measure the past was beyond his powers.