Mr Orgreave sold a corner plot to Darius. He had had his eye on Darius
for a long time before he actually shot him down; but difficulties
connected with the paring of estimates for printing had somewhat
estranged them. Orgreave had had to smooth out these difficulties,
offer to provide a portion of the purchase money on mortgage from
another client, produce a plan for a new house that surpassed all
records of cheapness, produce a plan for the transforming of Darius's
present residence into business premises, talk poetically about the
future of printing in the Five Towns, and lastly, demonstrate by digits
that Darius would actually save money by becoming a property-owner--he
had had to do all this, and more, before Darius would buy.
The two were regular cronies for about a couple of months--that is to
say, between the payment of the preliminary deposit and the signing of
the contract for building the house. But, the contract signed, their
relations were once more troubled. Orgreave had nothing to fear, then,
and besides, he was using his diplomacy elsewhere. The house went up to
an accompaniment of scenes in which only the proprietor was irate.
Osmond Orgreave could not be ruffled; he could not be deprived of his
air of having done a favour to Darius Clayhanger; his social and moral
superiority, his real aloofness, remained absolutely unimpaired. The
clear image of him as a fine gentleman was never dulled nor distorted
even in the mind of Darius. Nevertheless Darius `hated the sight' of
the house ere the house was roofed in. But this did not diminish his
pride in the house. He wished he had never `set eyes on' Osmond
Orgreave. Yes! But the little boy from the Bastille was immensely
content at the consequences of having set eyes on Osmond Orgreave. The
little boy from the Bastille was achieving the supreme peak of
greatness--he was about to live away from business. Soon he would be
`going down to business' of a morning. Soon he would be receiving two
separate demand-notes for rates. Soon he would be on a plane with the
vainest earthenware manufacturer of them all. Ages ago he had got as
far as a house with a lobby to it. Now, it would be a matter of two
establishments. Beneath all his discontents, moodiness, temper, and
biliousness, lay this profound satisfaction of the little boy from the
Bastille.
Moreover, in any case, he would have been obliged to do something
heroic, if only to find the room more and more imperiously demanded by
his printing business.
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