They were standing close together in the shop, Janet and Edwin, near the
cabinet of artists' materials. Janet, after her manner at once frank
and reassuring, examined Edwin; she had come on purpose to examine him.
She had never been able to decide whether or not he was good-looking,
and she could not decide now. But she liked the appeal in his eyes.
She did not say to herself that there was an appeal in his eyes; she
said that there was `something in his eyes.' Also he was moderately
tall and he was slim. She said to herself that he must be very well
shaped. Beginning at the bottom, his boots were clumsy, his trousers
were baggy and even shiny, and they had transverse creases, not to be
seen in the trousers of her own menkind; his waistcoat showed plainly
the forms of every article in the pockets thereof--watch, penknife,
pencil, etcetera, it was obvious that he never emptied his pockets at
night; his collar was bluish-white instead of white, and its size was
monstrous; his jacket had `worked up' at the back of his neck,
completely hiding his collar there; the side-pockets of his jacket were
weighted and bulged with mysterious goods; his fair hair was rough but
not curly; he had a moustache so trifling that one could not be sure
whether it was a moustache or whether he had been too busy to think of
shaving. Janet received all these facts into her brain, and then
carelessly let them all slip out again, in her preoccupation with his
eyes. She said they were sad eyes. The mouth, too, was somewhat sad
(she thought), but there was a drawing down of the corners of it that
seemed to make gentle fun of its sadness. Janet, perhaps out of her
good-nature, liked his restless, awkward movements and the gesture of
his hands, of which the articulations were too prominent, and the
finger-nails too short.
"Tom reads rather a lot of poetry," said Janet. "That's my eldest
brother."
"That _might_ justify you," said Edwin doubtfully.
They both laughed. And as with Janet, so with Edwin, when he laughed,
all the kindest and honestest part of him seemed to rise into his face.
"But if you don't supply new books any more?"
"Oh!" Edwin stuttered, blushing slightly. "That's nothing. I shall be
very pleased to get it for you specially, Miss Orgreave. It's father
that decided--only last month--that the new book business was more
trouble than it's worth. It was--in a way; but I'm sorry, myself, we've
given it up, poor as it was. Of course there _are_ no book-buyers in this
town, especially now old Lawton's dead. But still, what with one thing
or another, there was generally some book on order, and I used to see
them. Of course there's no money in it. But still... Father says that
people buy less books than they used to--but he's wrong there." Edwin
spoke with calm certainty. "I've shown him he's wrong by our
order-book, but he wouldn't see it." Edwin smiled, with a general mild
indulgence for fathers.
"Well," said Janet, "I'll ask Tom first."
"No trouble whatever to us to order it for you, I assure you. I can get
it down by return of post."
"It's very good of you," said Janet, genuinely persuading herself for
the moment that Edwin was quite exceeding the usual bounds of
complaisance.
She moved to depart.
"Father told me to tell you if I saw you that the glazing will be all
finished this morning," said she.
"Up yonder?" Edwin jerked his head to indicate the south.
And Janet delicately confirmed his assumption with a slight declension
of her waving hat.
"Oh! Good!" Edwin murmured.
Janet held out her hand, to be wrung again, and assured him of her
gratitude for his offer of taking trouble about the book; and he assured
her that it would not be trouble but pleasure. He accompanied her to
the doorway.
"I think I must come up and have a look at that glazing this afternoon,"
he said, as she stood on the pavement.
She nodded, smiling benevolence and appreciation, and departed round the
corner in the soft sunshine.
Edwin put on a stern, casual expression for the benefit of Stifford, as
who should say: "What a trial these frivolous girls are to a man
immersed in affairs!" But Stifford was not deceived. Safe within his
lair, Edwin was conscious of quite a disturbing glow. He smiled to
himself--a little self-consciously, though alone. Then he scribbled
down in pencil "Light of Asia. Miss J. Orgreave."