"That's the missis, that is," said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and
semi-confidential voice.
"Oh! Mrs. Frensham?"
"Yes. But her real name is Scales," said Mr. Mardon, proudly.
"Widow, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And she runs the whole show?"
"She runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; "and
don't you make any mistake!" He was getting familiar.
Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful,
uninterested nonchalance at the gas-burners which exploded one
after another with a little plop under the application of the
maid's taper. The white table gleamed more whitely than ever under
the flaring gas. People at the end of the room away from the
window instinctively smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine.
The aspect of the dinner was changed, ameliorated; and with the
reiterated statement that the evenings were drawing in though it
was only July, conversation became almost general. In two minutes
Mr. Mardon was genially talking across the whole length of the
table. The meal finished in a state that resembled conviviality.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepuscular
delights of Paris. Unless he remained within the shelter of the
Pension, he could not hope to complete successfully his re-
conversion from folly to wisdom.
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