Parkins was genuflecting at the time with his--"Cream, sir,--yes,
sir. Devilled kidney, sir? Thank you, sir." (Parkins had been
second man with Lord Colchester, so he told Breen when he hired
him.) Jack had about made up his mind to order him out when a
peculiar tone in his uncle's "Good morning" made the boy scan that
gentleman's face and figure the closer.
His uncle was as well dressed as usual, looking as neat and as
smart in his dark cut-away coat with the invariable red carnation
in his buttonhole, but the boy's quick eye caught the marks of a
certain wear and tear in the face which neither his bath nor his
valet had been able to obliterate. The thin lips--thin for a man
so fat, and which showed, more than any other feature, something
of the desultory firmness of his character--drooped at the
corners. The eyes were half their size, the snap all out of them,
the whites lost under the swollen lids. His greeting, moreover,
had lost its customary heartiness.
"You were out late, I hear," he grumbled, dropping into his chair.
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