“You know, darling,” she said, playful and serious, sitting on the edge of the desk by his side in a manner most unmatronly. “Either you eat tomorrow, or I shall have the doctor in. Oh! I shall have the doctor in! It’s for you to decide, but I’ve made up my mind. You must admit—”
And then the shop door opened and someone entered. Violet sprang off the desk to the switches, illuminated the shop, and beheld Dr. Raste. Henry also beheld Dr. Raste. Although a perfectly innocent woman, Violet’s face at once changed to that of a wicked conspirator who has been caught in the act. Try as she would she could not get rid of that demeanour of guilt, and the more she tried the less she succeeded. She dared not look at Henry. Certainly she could not murmur to Henry; “I swear to you I didn’t send for him. His coming’s just as much a surprise to me as it is to you.” She thought: “This is that girl Elsie’s doing.” And she was angry and resentful against Elsie, and yet timorously glad that Elsie had been interfering. What Henry was thinking no one could guess. Henry’s mind to him a kingdom was, and a kingdom never invaded. All that could be positively stated of Henry was that the moment he recognized the doctor he rose vigorously from his chair and limped about with vivacity to prove that he was not an invalid, or in any way in need of any doctor. And, strange to say, he really felt quite well. Dr. Raste startled Violet by offering to shake hands.
“Ha! How d’ye do, Mrs. Earlforward,” said he, in his sprightly, professional, high-voiced style. “Not seen you for a long time.”
Violet recalled the Sunday morning in Riceyman Square when he had spoken to Henry on the pavement. She was happy then, and expectant of happiness. She was girlish then, exuberant, dominating, self-willed, free. None could withstand her. A year ago! The change in twelve months suddenly presented itself to her with a sinister significance; but she imagined that the change was confined to her circumstances, and that an unchanged Violet had survived.
The doctor with his fresh eyes saw a shrunken woman, subject to some kind of neurosis which he could not diagnose. He greeted the oncoming Mr. Earlforward, and shook a hand of parchment. Mr. Earlforward’s appearance indeed astonished him, and he said to himself that perhaps he had done well to call, and that anyhow Elsie had not exaggerated her report, Mr. Earlforward was worse than shrunken—he was emaciated; his jaws were hollowed, his little eyes had receded, his complexion was greyish, his lips were pale and dry—the lower lip had lost its heavy fullness; his ears were nearly white. And there he was moving nervously about in the determination to be in excellent health in the presence of the doctor. Amazing, thought Dr. Raste, that Mrs. Earlforward had not summoned medical assistance weeks earlier! But then Mrs. Earlforward saw her husband every day and nearly all day. Amazing that no customer had dropped a word of alarm! But then Mr. Earlforwaid’s amiable and bland relations with customers were not such as to permit any kind of intimacy. You got a certain distance with Mr. Earlforward, but you never got any further.
“You remember I bought a Shakespeare here last year,” Dr. Raste began cheerily, and somewhat loudly. (He often spoke more loudly than he need: result of imposing himself on the resistant stupidity of the proletariat.) Relief spread through the shop like a sweet odour. The professional man’s visit was a pure coincidence after all. Violet ceased to look guilty. Henry ceased to ape the person of vigorous health.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Earlforward; and to his wife: “Just reach down that ‘Shakespeare with Illustrations,’ will you?”
“Shakespeare with Illustrations” was the shop’s title for the work (Valpy’s edition of Shakespeare’s plays and poems), because these three words were the only words on the binding.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve not sold it yet—a year, isn’t it?” cried Dr. Raste.
And Mr. Earlforward recalled from their previous interview in the shop an impression that the doctor was apt to be impudent. What right had the man to express surprise at the work not having been sold? Mr. Earlforward had in stock books bought ten years ago, fifteen years ago.
“I could have sold it,” said he. “But the truth is I’ve been keeping it for you. I felt sure you’d be looking in one of these days. I meant to drop you a postcard to say I’d found it; but somehow—”
All this was true. For at least ten months Mr. Earlforward had intended to drop the postcard, and had never dropped it. Yet his conviction that one day he would drop it had remained fresh and strong throughout the period.
“Here! It’s up in that corner, my dear,” said Mr. Earlforward.
“Yes, I know. I’m just going to get the steps.”
“Where are they? They ought to be here.”
“I don’t know. Elsie must have had them for her windows, and forgotten to bring them back.”
“Tut, tut!” Mr. Earlforward blandly expostulated.
“Shakespeare’s been having considerable success in my house,” Dr. Raste went on, when the two men were alone, with an arch smile at his own phrasing. “You’d scarcely believe it, but my little daughter simply devours him. And as it’s her birthday next week I thought I’d give her my Globe edition for herself, and get another one with a wee bit larger type for myself. My eyes aren’t what they were. … Simply devours him! Scarcely believe it, would you?” The doctor was growing human. His eyes sparkled with ingenuous paternal pride. Then he checked himself.
“I notice your old clock isn’t going,” said he, in a more conventional, a conversation-making tone, and glanced at his wrist.
“No,” Mr. Earlforward quietly admitted,
