The perfection of Big James’s attitude, an attitude symbolised by the letting down of his apron, helped to put Edwin at ease in the original and difficult circumstances. “Good evening, Mr Edwin. Good evening, miss,” was all that the man actually said with his tongue, but the formality of his majestic gestures indicated in the most dignified way his recognition of a sharp difference of class and his exact comprehension of his own rôle in the affair. He stood waiting: he had been about to depart, but he was entirely at the disposal of the company.
“This is Mr Yarlett, our foreman,” said Edwin, and to Big James: “Miss Lessways has just come to look round.”
Hilda smiled. Big James suavely nodded his head.
“Here are some of the types,” said Edwin, because a big case was the object nearest him, and he glanced at Big James.
In a moment the foreman was explaining to Hilda, in his superb voice, the use of the composing-stick, and he accompanied the theory by a beautiful exposition of the practice; Edwin could stand aside and watch. Hilda listened and looked with an extraordinary air of sympathetic interest. And she was so serious, so adult. But it was the quality of sympathy, he thought, that was her finest, her most attractive. It was either that or her proud independence, as of a person not accustomed to bend to the will of others or to go to others for advice. He could not be sure... No! Her finest quality was her mystery. Even now, as he gazed at her comfortably, she baffled him; all her exquisite little movements and intonations baffled him. Of one thing, however, he was convinced: that she was fundamentally different from other women. There was she, and there was the rest of the sex.
For appearance’s sake he threw in short phrases now and then, to which Big James, by his mere deportment, gave the importance of the words of a master.
“I suppose you printers did something special among yourselves to celebrate the four-hundredth anniversary of the invention of printing?” said Hilda suddenly, glancing from Edwin to Big James. And Big James and Edwin glanced at one another. Neither had ever heard of the four-hundredth anniversary of the invention of printing. In a couple of seconds Big James’s downcast eye had made it clear that he regarded this portion of the episode as master’s business.
“When was that?—let me see,” Edwin foolishly blurted out.
“Oh! Some years ago. Two or three—perhaps four.”
“I’m afraid we didn’t,” said Edwin, smiling.