The wrath was driven out of him. The
mere apparition of Rachel had saved her husband.
A silence.
Rachel had disappeared. Then there was a distant tapping. Neither of
the men spoke nor moved. They could hear the outer door open and light
footfalls in the outer office.
"Anybody here?" It was Rachel's voice, timid.
"Come in, come in!" Horrocleave roared.
She entered, blushing, excusing herself, glancing from one to the
other, and by her spotless Easter finery emphasizing the squalor of
the den.
In a few minutes Horrocleave was saying to Rachel, rather
apologetically--
"Louis and I are going to part company, Mrs. Fores. I can't keep him
on. His wages are too high for me. It won't run to it. Th' truth is,
I'm going to chuck this art business. It doesn't pay. Art, as they
call it, 's no good in th' pottery trade."
Rachel said, "So that's what you wanted to see him about on a Sunday
morning, is it, Mr. Horrocleave?"
She was a little hurt at the slight on her husband, but the wife
in her was persuaded that the loss would be Mr. Horrocleave's.
She foresaw that Louis would now want to use his capital in some
commercial undertaking of his own; and she was afraid of the prospect.
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