into the kitchen to get the modern appliance of the match for lighting
the gas in the lobby. When she had lighted the gas she opened the
front door with audacious but nervous deliberation, and the famous
character impatiently walked straight in. He wore prominent loose
black kid gloves and a thin black overcoat.

Looking coolly at her, he said--

"So you're the new lady companion, young miss! Well, I've heard rare
accounts on ye--rare accounts on ye! Missis is in, I reckon?"

His voice was extremely low, rich, and heavy. It descended on the
silence like a thick lubricating oil that only reluctantly abandons
the curves in which it falls.

And Rachel answered, faintly, tremulously--"Yes."

No longer was she the independent woman, censorious and scornful, but
a silly, timid little thing. Though she condemned herself savagely for
school-girlishness, she could do nothing to arrest the swift change in
her. The fact was, she was abashed, partly by the legendary importance
of the renowned Batchgrew, but more by his physical presence. His
mere presence was always disturbing; for when he supervened into
an environment he had always the air of an animal on a voyage of
profitable discovery. His nose was an adventurous, sniffing nose, a
true nose, which exercised the original and proper functions of a nose
noisily. His limbs were restless, his boots like hoofs. His eyes were
as restless as his limbs, and seemed ever to be seeking for something
upon which they could definitely alight, and not finding it. He
performed eructations with the disarming naturalness of a baby. He was