The company of Uncle Alfred’s frequenters was not, indeed, exhilarating.
Artie Millar, whom Rose had once found attractive, now failed to satisfy her taste, unconsciously trained to other standards. He had grown fat, and was inclined to arrive in the mornings with a slightly yellow appearance, and a muttered complaint aside to Felix Menebees as to the “head” brought on by the avocations of the previous night.
It did not add to Rose’s admiration that she intuitively knew Artie Millar to be a thoroughly steady-going young man, of sober and respectable tendencies, whose wildest excesses never led to his arriving later than nine o’clock in the morning at the Ovington Street shop.
The pastiness of his complexion, from which the youthful tan that had captivated her fancy had long ago faded, she matter-of-factly attributed to his dislike of exercise and to the lack of fresh air in the shop.
Representatives of Foreign Missions occasionally called upon Uncle Alfred, and after short and earnest conversations with him in the upstairs sitting-room, usually departed, with subdued elation discernible in the tones of their farewells. They generally left on the table, or sometimes on the counter of the front shop, sodden-looking leaflets that bore, beneath a title that Rose described to herself generically as “The-Good-Work-in-Far-Timbuctoo,” an illustration of a black-coated missionary affectionately embracing the shoulders of a sable African, who was always suitably decked in a little vest and a pair of shorts. These pamphlets, and The Pawnbrokers’ Gazette, formed Uncle Alfred’s evening literature. From time to time, he received a visit from some contemporary of his own, but no one was ever asked to supper, although Mr. Smith permitted Rose to institute the appearance of a tea-tray, with cups and saucers, and a brew of very black, strong tea, at half-past nine every evening. When there was a caller, Rose added a plate of biscuits of the variety called “Fancy” by Uncle Alfred and “Squashed-fly” by his niece.
Further than this, Mr. Smith’s ideas of hospitality did not go.
Rose was not without doubts of her own wisdom in suggesting a visit from Lord Charlesbury. It never occurred to her to feel ashamed of the shop, but she did experience much vicarious wrath and disgust at the absence of hospitality that she considered her uncle displayed in his entertainment of a guest.
“I should have thought, Uncle A., I must say, that we could rise to a decent set-out of coffee, and I could quite well show the girl how to bring it in.”
“How to bring it in!” ejaculated Mr. Smith. “There’s only one way of carrying a tray, as far as I know, unless you want her to balance it on her head like a heathen. I can see plainly that the pomps and vanities of this wicked world are taking a hold on your mind, Rose. ‘Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and discontent withal.’”
His cat-like eyes gleamed upon her, and he shook his finger.