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Ann's small hands made an expressive gesture which seemed to envisage something long and lean. "Queer like that. He's not old, but he's bald. His eyes screw into you. His nose," another formative gesture, "is like that. A nawful big nose. He didn't tell his name." "If he looks like that, perhaps he hasn't any name. Perhaps he is a button-moulder.
Coombe Presbyterians were still content to do without frills in the matter of doctrine. Coombe could still listen to hell fire and, if not unduly disturbed, did not at least smile behind its hand. Something of all this the Button-Moulder, student of men, felt as he watched the sombre yet glowing face of the preacher.
The morning, in which he could hardly hope to see Esther, stretched before him intolerably long. Upon impulse he drew his desk to the window and, sitting down, began to write: "Dear Old Button-Moulder "Behold the faulty button about to be recast! This is to be a big day. I am writing you now because if she refuses me, I shan't be able to tell you of it, and if she accepts me I shan't have time.
"That no man ever had a better friend! I know you, old Button-Moulder. I know your ambition to make of me a 'shining button on the vest of the world! You thought that Lorna might help. But I failed you there. I'm sorry. That was really the bitterness of the whole thing -to fail you!" "You owe me nothing," gruffly. "Only my life my sanity." "I shall doubt the latter if you stay here."
The sentiment that Peer "had women behind him and, therefore, could not perish" appealed strongly to the German mood, though the application of the button-moulder idea to the plight of Germany just now appeared to have been missed.
Quite cut off from the rest of the house save-for the door by which we entered, the parlour door, which Mrs. Sykes informs me I may lock if I choose although she feels sure that I know her too well to imagine any undue liberties being taken!" The Button-Moulder with a gesture of despair made as if to sit down upon the nearest chair, but was prevented with kindly firmness by his host.
"Look at me and ask those questions again." The keen eyes of the Button-Moulder looked deep into the doctor's steady ones. There was a slight pause. Then "Yes, I see what you mean. I saw it as you came across the orchard." The sharp voice softened. "My anxiety for your health could hardly survive the way in which you leaped that fence! But all this makes it only the more mysterious.
She got what she wanted for she wanted only dross. Ibsen's Button-Moulder will meet her at the Cross-Roads when her time comes. Hedda, like Strindberg's Julia, may escape him because, coward as she was when facing harsh reality, she had the courage to rid her family of a worthless encumbrance.
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