Upon Mavis
learning that the landlady would not object to Jill's presence, she
closed with the offer. At Mrs Scatchard's invitation, she spent the
evening in the sitting-room downstairs, where she was introduced to
Mr Scatchard. If, as had been alleged, Mr Scatchard was a pillar of
the throne, that august institution was in a parlous condition. He
was a red-headed, red-eyed, clean-shaven man, in appearance not
unlike an elderly cock; his blotchy face, thick utterance, and the
smell of his breath, all told Mavis that he was addicted to drink.
Mavis wondered how this fuddled man, whose wife let lodgings in a
shabby corner of Shepherd's Bush, could be remotely associated with
Government, till it leaked out that he had been for many years, and
still was, one of the King's State trumpeters.
Mavis was grateful to the Scatchards for their humble hospitality,
if only because it prevented her mind from dwelling on her
extremity. She was so tired with all she had gone through, that,
directly she got to bed, she fell asleep, to awake about five with a
mind possessed by fears for the future. Try as she could, faith in
her lover refused to supply the relief necessary to allow her
further sleep.
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