tall but not stout, and yet he filled the lobby; he was the sole fact
in the lobby, and it was as though Rachel had to crush herself against
the wall in order to make room for him.

His glance at Rachel now became inquisitive, calculating, It seemed to
be saying: "One day I may be able to make use of this piece of goods."
But there was a certain careless good-humour in it, too. What he saw
was a naïve young maid, with agreeable features, and a fine, fresh
complexion, and rather reddish hair. (He did not approve of the
colour of the hair.) He found pleasure in regarding her, and in the
perception that he had abashed her. Yes, he liked to see her timid and
downcast before him. He was an old man, but like most old men--such as
statesmen--who have lived constantly at the full pressure of following
their noses, he was also a young man. He creaked, but he was not
gravely impaired.

"Is it Mr. Batchgrew?" Rachel softly murmured the unnecessary
question, with one hand on the knob ready to open the sitting-room
door.

He had flopped his stiff, flat-topped felt hat on the oak chest, and
was taking off his overcoat. He paused and, lifting his chin--and his
incredible white whiskers with it--gazed at Rachel almost steadily for
a couple of seconds.

"It is," he said, as it were challengingly--"it is, young miss."

Then he finished removing his overcoat and thrust it roughly down on
the hat.