They got him out, and between them they brought him in, Bobby paying the fare with the last of his sovereign.
Then it came to his mind like a flash that the other one was not a personality so much as a combination of foolish actions, old desires, and alien motives let loose on the world without governance.
Simon was finishing breakfast when they arrived, assisted by Madame and Cerise. Poor Monsieur Pattigrew did not seem in the least in the need of pity either, though the women hung about him as women hang about an invalid. He was talking and laughing, and he greeted the newcomers as good companions who had just turned up. His geniality was not to be denied, and it struck Bobby, in a weird sort of manner, that Uncle Simon like this was a much pleasanter person than the old original article. Like this: that is to say, for a moment out of danger from the vicious grinding wheels of a city that destroys butterflies and a society that requests respectable old solicitors to remain respectable old solicitors.