Her family had been quite wrong when they predicted a change in her
appearance. The sleek brown bands remained the same, the snuff-coloured
gown, though of necessity every few years it had to be replaced by a
successor, to outward appearance was unaltered. Lydia Protheroe,
inheriting an odd and incongruous remnant of Presbyterianism from the
late Alice Jennings, considered freedom of the spirit of more
consequence than eccentricity of garb. Therefore, her external sobriety
gave no hint of her internal flamboyance. People used to remark that the
only thing in the shop devoid of all fantasy was the proprietor behind
the counter. “Proper Protheroe” they called her, and similar names. But
they had to admit her supremacy on all questions of travesty. She had
more than the mere technical, the mere historical, knowledge; she had a
flair and an imagination which surprised and convinced, unarguably.
Without a trace of enthusiasm she issued her directions, coldly pointing
with a ladylike forefinger, and when the finger was not in use she
resumed that characteristic, tight little attitude, which had remained
with her, of clasping her elbows with the opposite hand, while she
watched her directions slavishly carried out. Her customers wondered
whether she was ever gratified by her complete success. If so, she never
betrayed it. The utmost approval that she was known to bestow, was a
chilly “That will do.” And yet, after her forty years of labour, she was
a recognized authority in her profession; hidden away in her provincial
town, she was the court of appeal in all problems connected with her
trade, an arbitrator to whom even London had recourse. People said that
as time went on she became grimmer and more intimidating. Certainly she
became more self-contained, and none knew what passed beneath the sleek
brown bands in their unvariable neatness, or behind the gown that
buttoned, like a uniform, down the front. Something of a legend grew up
around the personality of Lydia Protheroe. It became the fashion for
strangers in the town to pay a visit to the shop, buying a box of powder
or a stick of lip-salve to provide themselves with an excuse, while they
covertly observed the ambiguous gentlewoman. The legend gradually became
enhanced by scraps of gossip that crept into circulation about Lydia
Protheroe. It was known in the town that she no longer allowed her
solitary servant to sleep in the house, but that at six o’clock
punctually, when the staff of the shop, consisting of three, left the
premises, the servant-girl went with them. The bell over the door would
tinkle for the last time of the day, the three assistants, turning up
their collars or burying their hands in their muffs, would issue out one
by one into the street, the servant-girl bringing up the rear; three
“Good-night, Miss Protheroe’s” would be rapped out, and one “Good-night,
miss,” from the servant, always scared and never in the least devoted;
and the door would be shut behind them, and there would be the sound of
the key turning in the lock.