"Are you going to send him away?" Mark asked.
"Send him away?" Father Rowley repeated. "Where would I send him? If he
can't keep off drink in this house and in these surroundings where else
will he keep off drink? No, I'm only amused at my optimism."
There was a knock on the door.
"I expect that is Mr. Mousley," said Mark. "I'll leave you with him."
"No, don't go away," said the Missioner. "If Mousley didn't mind your
seeing him as he was last night, there's no reason why this morning he
should mind your hearing my comments upon his behaviour."
The tap on the door was repeated.
"Come in, come in, Mousley, and take a seat."
Mr. Mousley walked timidly across the room and sat on the very edge of
the chair offered him by Father Rowley. He was a quiet, rather drab
little man, the kind of little man who always loses his seat in a
railway carriage and who always gets pushed further up in an omnibus,
one of life's pawns. The presence of Mark did not seem to affect him,
for no sooner was he seated than he began to apologize with suspicious
rapidity, as if by now his apologies had been reduced to a formula.
"I really must apologize, Father Rowley, for my lateness last night and
for coming in, I fear, slightly the worse for liquor.
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