It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. He returned to attend the funeral. Lucy kissed him on the cheek. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. She had not even endorsed it. Wood, contemptuously. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. Here's a couple in hand.
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