The food was not wonderful--the thick pea-soup was cold, the sole bones and skin, the roast beef tepid and the apple-tart heavy.

The men drank whiskies and sodas, and Maggie noticed that her uncle drank very little.

And then (with apologies to Maggie) they smoked cigars, and she sat before the dismal fire in an old armchair with a hole in it.
Martin Warlock talked in a most delightful way about his travels, and Uncle Mathew asked him questions that were not, after all, so stupid.
What had happened to him?
Had Maggie always undervalued him, or was it that he was sober now and clear-headed?
His fat round thighs seemed stronger, his hands seemed cleaner, the veins in his face were not so purple.

She remembered the night when he had come into her room.

She had been able to manage him then.