“I’ll see.”
They parted at the shop-door on a note of hard, cheerful indifference: note struck for the sake of the proprieties of a place of business—and utterly false. For Henry loved his wife to worry about him, and Violet’s soul was heavy with apprehensions. She saw herself helpless in a situation growing ever more formidable.
III
International
Violet was attending to another customer when Mr. Bauersch came into the shop. She ignored him until she had sped the first customer, who happened also to be “in the trade.” According to Violet’s code, all customers were equal in the sight of the shopkeeper, and although the first customer was shabby and dirty, and carried for his acquisitions a black stuff sack which he slung over his shoulder, Violet would not abate one comma of her code. Nevertheless, while ignoring, she appraised Mr. Bauersch, whom on his previous visits she had only glimpsed once. She was confirmed in her original lightning impression that he bore a resemblance to Henry. He was of about the same age and build; he had the same sort of pointed beard, and the same mild demeanour; and also his suit was of the same kind and colour of cloth as Henry wore on Sundays. But what a different suit from Henry’s! It had a waist. Violet did not like that. Unaware that Mr. Bauersch clothed himself in London, she attributed the waist to the decadent eccentricity of New York. Nor did she like the excessive width of the black ribbon which held Mr. Bauersch’s pince-nez. Nor did she like the boldly exposed striped shirt—(nobody except Violet and Elsie ever saw even the cuffs of Mr. Earlforward’s shirt, to say nothing of the front)—nor the elegant, carefully studied projecting curve of the necktie. In short, Mr. Bauersch failed utterly to match Violet’s ideal of a man of business.
She turned to him at last, as he was strolling about curiously, and greeted him with the hard, falsely genial, horrible smile of the suspicious woman who is not going to be done in the eye in a commercial matter. This was not at all the agreeable Violet of the confectioner’s shop. And the reason for the transformation was that she had a husband to protect, that the prestige and big transactions of the great Bauersch made her nervous, and that Mr. Bauersch was from New York. Violet, I regret to say, had fixed and uncharitable notions about foreigners. Mr. Bauersch acknowledged her greeting with much courtesy, and with no condescension whatever.
“My name’s Bauersch, Mrs. Earlforward,” said he. (Why should he so certainly assume that she was Mrs. Earlforward?)
“Oh, yes!” she murmured, simpering. “You’ve called about the books, I suppose?” Her tone indicated that there was just a chance of his having called about the gas or the weather.
“Yes. Are they all ready for shipping?” (What did he mean by “shipping”? They were ready for him to take away, ready for dispatch.)
She nodded vaguely.
“Those are the cases, no doubt,” said Mr. Bauersch, pointing to the office, and walking into it without invitation.
“People aren’t supposed to come in here,” said Violet, smiling harshly, as she followed him.
He examined the packing of the cases rather negligently, and then turned to the shelves and adjusted his pince-nez.
“Mr. Earlforward left the bill. I don’t know whether you’d like to check the volumes.”
Mr. Bauersch appeared to be a man of few words. In another minute he had paid down the money in Bank Notes and Treasury Notes. Violet counted and temporarily locked the money away in a drawer of the desk. Strange that this reassuring episode did not soften her attitude!
“May I go and explore a little upstairs?” asked Mr. Bauersch, while she was preparing the receipt.
Evidently Henry, as sometimes he did to customers, had given Mr. Bauersch the freedom of the house during Violet’s absence. The house was still very full of books, and free exploration was good for trade; but Violet the house-mistress objected to free exploration.
“I’m afraid I can’t go up with you now,” said she. “I’m all alone in the shop.”
“I quite see.” Mr. Bauersch accepted the rebuff with grace, and turned back again to the shelves, and then to the mounds of books on the floor.
Having receipted the bill, Violet ahemmed in the direction of the absorbed Mr. Bauersch, who ignored the signal. Then two young women entered the shop, and Violet decided to punish Mr. Bauersch by attending to them. They wanted “sevenpennies.” There were no sevenpennies, and Violet spent at least five minutes with them, making a profit of one penny on the sale of a soiled copy of The Scapegoat; she displayed no impatience, and continued to chat after the deal was done and finished; she seemed to part from them with lingering pain.
“How much is this?” Mr. Bauersch demanded, somewhat urgently, holding out a volume; he had come into the shop.
The book was a copy of an eighteenth-century Dutch illustrated edition, octavo, of La Fontaine’s Tales. Violet, looking at it, inspected it. She did not know what the book was. But Henry had taught her some general principles: for instance, that any book printed before 1600 is “worth money,” that any book of verse printed before 1700 is worth money, and that most illustrated books printed before 1800 are worth money. Also she had learnt to read Roman date numerals. Indeed she had left Elsie out of sight in the race for knowledge. The price of the book was marked in cipher, inside the front-cover—ten shillings. In Elsie’s viceroyalty all prices had been marked in plain figures—largely for the convenience of Elsie. But under Violet plain figures were gradually being abolished; there was no need for them, and they were apt to interfere with Violet’s freedom of action in determining prices to suit the look and demeanour of customers.
“A pound,” she answered.
“Put it in, please.” Mr. Bauersch pulled out a Treasury Note. “We won’t haggle. Now I must have these cases sent down
