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I was only polite. I had to be. Nobody's called Mr. Batchgrew worse names than you have. But you forget. Only I don't forget. There's lots of things I don't forget, although I don't make a song about them. I shan't forget in a hurry how you let go of my bike without telling me and I fell all over the road. I know I'm lots more black and blue even than I was."
It remained that Thomas Batchgrew had been flattering her. On arrival he had greeted her with that tinge of deference which from an old man never fails to thrill a girl. Rachel's pride as a young married woman was tigerishly alert and hungry that evening.
"I really forget whether I looked at that door before I went to bed. I know I looked at all the others." "I'd looked at it, anyway," said Rachel defiantly, gazing at the table. "And when you found it open, miss," pursued Thomas Batchgrew, "what did ye do?" "I shut it and locked it." "Where was the key?" "In the door." "Lock in order?" "Yes."
Batchgrew realized, as he looked at her against the dark, hushed background of the stairs, that Mrs. Maldon was indeed ill. Mrs. Tams respectfully retired down the steps. A mightier than she, the young, naïve, ignorant girl, to whom she could have taught everything save possibly the art of washing cutlery, had relieved her of responsibility.
"You mustn't forget that I know a bit about these things, having spent years of my young life in a bank." But a vague instinct told him that to draw attention to his career in the bank might be unwise at any rate, in principle. "Can't you see," Rachel charged again, "that Mr. Batchgrew has only been flattering you all this time so as to get hold of your money?
As Rachel carried the food across to the bed, she could not help saying, though with feigned deference, to Mr. Batchgrew "You told us last night that there wouldn't be any more burglaries, Mr. Batchgrew." The burning tightness round the top of her head, due to fatigue and lack of sleep, seemed somehow to brace her audacity, and to make her careless of consequences.
She had imagined that she was waiting for destiny, but in fact she had been making destiny all the time, with her steely glances at Louis and her acrid, uncompromising tongue!... And did those other men really admire her? How, for instance, could Thomas Batchgrew admire her, seeing that he had suspected her of lies and concealment about the robbery?
Tarns with a meekness that admitted she could offer no defence, "only wuss!" "Hurry round to th' back door and let me in." "I doubt back door's bolted on th' inside," said Mrs. Tarns with deep humility. "This is ridiculous," said Mr. Batchgrew, truly. "Am I to stand here all day?" And raised his hand to the knocker. Mrs.
Further, he privately considered that nobody else ought to care about the balance, either, having regard to the supreme moral importance to himself of the four hundred and fifty. "Have you said anything to Mr. Batchgrew?" Louis asked, trying to adopt a casual tone, and to keep out of his voice the relief and joy which were gradually taking possession of his soul.
It very slowly moved forward, crossed the footpath and half the street opposite the Town Hall, impeding a tram-car, and then curved backward into a position by the kerbstone. John's Ernest was at the steering-wheel. Councillor Batchgrew stood still with his mouth open to watch the manoeuvre. "This is John's Ernest my son John's eldest. Happen ye know him?" said Batchgrew to Rachel.
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