In grotesque juxtaposition he remembered, together with that picture of
Sylvia as he had seen her last night, the case of a respectable old lady,
named Mrs. Meeks, the widow of a clergyman who had had a living in the
vicinity of Market Dalling.
Not long after her husband's death this old lady--she had about three
hundred a year, and Chester had charge of her money matters--went abroad
for a few weeks to Mentone. Those few weeks had turned Mrs. Meeks into
a confirmed gambler. She now lived entirely at Monte Carlo in one small
room.
He could not help remembering now the kind of remarks that were made by
the more prosperous inhabitants of Market Dalling, his fellow citizens,
when they went off for a short holiday to the South, in January or
February. They would see this poor lady, this Mrs. Meeks, wandering round
the gaming tables, and the sight would amuse and shock them. Chester knew
that one of the first things said to him after the return of such people
would be, "Who d'you think I saw at Monte Carlo? Why, Mrs. Meeks, of
course! It's enough to make her husband turn in his grave.
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