abandoning himself to riot and extravagance.

She felt pleasure in his company; for the first time since her
father's death she was a little frightened and uneasy. She might
even have gone to him and cried on his shoulder had he given her any
encouragement, but he did not speak to her except to say that he had
already eaten. He was still a little sulky with her.

When she had finished her meal she sat in her accustomed chair by
the fire, her head propped on her hands, looking into the flame, and
there, half-asleep, half-awake, memories, conversations, long-
vanished scenes trooped before her eyes as though they were bidding
her a long farewell. She did not, as she sat there, sentimentalise
about any of them, she saw them as they were, some happy, some
unhappy, some terrifying, some amusing, all of them dead and passed,
grey and thin, the life gone out of them. Her mind was fixed on the
future. What was it going to be? Would she have money as her uncle
had said? Would she see London and the world? Would she find
friends, people who would be glad to be with her and have her with
them? What would her aunts be like? and so from them, what about all
the other members of the family of whom she had heard? She painted
for herself a gay scene in which, at the door of some great house, a
fine gathering of Cardinals waited with smiles and outstretched
hands to welcome her. Then, laughing at herself as she always did
when she had allowed her fancy free rein, she shook her head. No, it
certainly would not be like that. Relations were not like that. That
was not the way to face the world to encourage romantic dreams. Her
uncle, watching her surreptitiously, wondered of what she was
thinking. Her determined treatment of him that afternoon continued
to surprise him. She certainly ought to make her way in the world,