The curtains were not drawn and where the curve of the hill fell
away the sky was faintly yellow; some cold stars like points of ice
pierced the higher blue; carelessly, as though with studied
indifference, flakes of snow fell, turning grey against the lamp-lit
windows, then vanishing utterly. Maggie, going to the window, saw a
dark shapeless figure beyond the glass. For an instant she was
invaded by the terror of her surprised loneliness, then she
remembered her father and the warm kitchen, then realised that this
figure in the dark must be her Uncle Mathew.

She went out into the hall, pushed back the stiff, clumsy handle of
the door, and stepped on to the gravel path. She called out,
laughing:

"Come in! You frightened me out of my life."

As he came towards her she felt the mingled kindness and irritation
that he always roused in her. He stood in the light of the hall
lamp, a fat man, a soft hat pushed to the back of his head, a bag in
one hand. His face was weak and good-tempered, his eyes had once
been fine but now they were dim and blurred; there were dimples in
his fat cheeks; he wore on his upper lip a ragged and untidy
moustache and he had two indeterminate chins. His expression was
mild, kindly, now a little ashamed, now greatly indignant. It was a
pity, as he often said, that he had not more control over his
feelings. Maggie saw at once that he was, as usual, a little drunk.

"Well," she said. "Come in, Uncle. Father is in church, I think,"
she added.