The Price of Love | Page 8

had always the air of an animal on a
voyage of profitable discovery. His nose was an adventurous, sniffing
nose, a true nose, which exercised the original and proper functions of a
nose noisily. His limbs were restless, his boots like hoofs. His eyes
were as restless as his limbs, and seemed ever to be seeking for
something upon which they could definitely alight, and not finding it.
He performed eructations with the disarming naturalness of a baby. He
was tall but not stout, and yet he filled the lobby; he was the sole fact in
the lobby, and it was as though Rachel had to crush herself against the
wall in order to make room for him.

His glance at Rachel now became inquisitive, calculating, It seemed to
be saying: "One day I may be able to make use of this piece of goods."
But there was a certain careless good-humour in it, too. What he saw
was a naïve young maid, with agreeable features, and a fine, fresh
complexion, and rather reddish hair. (He did not approve of the colour
of the hair.) He found pleasure in regarding her, and in the perception
that he had abashed her. Yes, he liked to see her timid and downcast
before him. He was an old man, but like most old men--such as
statesmen--who have lived constantly at the full pressure of following
their noses, he was also a young man. He creaked, but he was not
gravely impaired.
"Is it Mr. Batchgrew?" Rachel softly murmured the unnecessary
question, with one hand on the knob ready to open the sitting-room
door.
He had flopped his stiff, flat-topped felt hat on the oak chest, and was
taking off his overcoat. He paused and, lifting his chin--and his
incredible white whiskers with it--gazed at Rachel almost steadily for a
couple of seconds.
"It is," he said, as it were challengingly--"it is, young miss."
Then he finished removing his overcoat and thrust it roughly down on
the hat.
Rachel blushed as she modestly turned the knob and pushed the door so
that he might pass in front of her.
"Here's Mr. Batchgrew, Mrs. Maldon," she announced, feebly
endeavouring to raise and clear her voice.
"Bless us!" The astonished exclamation of Mrs. Maldon was heard.
And Councillor Batchgrew, with his crimson shiny face, and the
vermilion rims round his unsteady eyes, and his elephant ears, and the
absurd streaming of his white whiskers, and his multitudinous noisiness,
and his black kid gloves, strode half theatrically past her, sniffing.

To Rachel he was an object odious, almost obscene. In truth, she had
little mercy on old men in general, who as a class struck her as fussy,
ridiculous, and repulsive. And beyond all the old men she had ever seen,
she disliked Councillor Batchgrew. And about Councillor Batchgrew
what she most detested was, perhaps strangely, his loose, wrinkled
black kid gloves. They were ordinary, harmless black kid gloves, but
she counted them against him as a supreme offence.
"Conceited, self-conscious, horrid old brute!" she thought, discreetly
drawing the door to, and then going into the kitchen. "He's interested in
nothing and nobody but himself." She felt protective towards Mrs.
Maldon, that simpleton who apparently could not see through a John
Batchgrew!... So Mrs. Maldon had been giving him good accounts of
the new lady companion, had she!

VII
"Well, Lizzie Maldon," said Councillor Batchgrew as he crossed the
sitting-room, "how d'ye find yourself?... Sings!" he went on, taking Mrs.
Maldon's hand with a certain negligence and at the same time fixing an
unfriendly eye on the gas.
Mrs. Maldon had risen to welcome him with the punctilious warmth
due to an old gentleman, a trustee, and a notability. She told him as to
her own health and inquired about his. But he ignored her smooth
utterances, in the ardour of following his nose.
"Sings worse than ever! Very unhealthy too! Haven't I told ye and told
ye? You ought to let me put electricity in for you. It isn't as if it wasn't
your own house.... Pay ye! Pay ye over and over again!"
He sat down in a chair by the table, drew off his loose black gloves, and
after letting them hover irresolutely over the encumbered table,
deposited them for safety in the china slop-basin.
"I dare say you're quite right," said Mrs. Maldon with grave urbanity.
"But really gas suits me very well. And you know the gas-manager

complains so much about the competition of electricity. Truly it does
seem unfair, doesn't it, as they both belong to the town! If I gave up gas
for electricity I don't think I could look the poor man in the face at
church. And all these changes cost money! How is dear Enid?"
Mr. Batchgrew had now