He seemed not to be
able to decide whether a cigarette was something to smoke or something
to eat. Mr. Batchgrew was more ungainly than ever, stretched in his
characteristic attitude at an angle of forty-five degrees; his long
whiskers were more absurdly than ever like two tails of a wire-haired
white dog; his voice more coarsely than ever rolled about the room
like undignified thunder. He was an old, old man, and a sinister. It
was precisely his age that caressed Rachel's pride. That any man so
old should have come to her house for supper, should be treating her
as an equal and with the directness of allusion in conversation due to
a married woman but improper to a young girl--this was very sweet to
Rachel. The subdued stir made by Mrs. Tams in clearing the table was
for Rachel a delicious background to the scene. The one flaw in it
was her short skirt, which she had not had time to change. Louis
had protested that it was entirely in order, and indeed admirably
coquettish, but Rachel would have preferred a long train of soft
drapery disposed with art round the front of her chair.
"What you want here is electricity," said Thomas Batchgrew, gazing
at the incandescent gas; he could never miss a chance, and was never
discouraged in the pursuit of his own advantage.
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