Fifty years had moulded his appearance to a nicety in accordance with his mode of life, which was, for the most part (when he was not up-town at his club, or down-town at his office) passed in solitary confinement in the top-floor suite.
He was a man of medium height, who carried his stubborn head low bent from his shoulders, like most thinkers, though the rapid upward glance out of his keen brown eyes was quick and piercing—even commanding at times.
What remained of his gray hairs were neatly parted on the side and as carefully smoothed over a cranium surmounting a broad, intelligent forehead, the bushy eyebrows denoting a man of shrewd perception, shadowing a grave face framed in a pair of cropped side-whiskers. These met with a mustache nearly white, and as stiff as a tooth-brush, that bristled over a mouth whose corners curved downward in repose; when he opened his lips, they revealed his even lower teeth, giving him the tenacious expression of a bulldog. When he smiled, which was rarely, two seams bordering the chop side-whiskers deepened in the effort. When he laughed, there radiated upon these still rarer occasions, tinier wrinkles from the corners of his eyes. Sham and affectation he despised. Noise made him grit his teeth, and any undue outburst of geniality he regarded in the light of a personal insult. No one would have dared slap Enoch Crane on the back.
Years ago he had looked in the glass, decided he was ugly and, with the wisdom of a philosopher, thought no more about it. He was punctilious, nevertheless, about his dress—his favorite trousers being of white-and-black check shepherd’s plaid, and his coat and waistcoat of dark-gray homespun. On special occasions these were replaced by decent black broadcloth, which, like the rest of his clothes, were kept conscientiously brushed by Moses and hung in the big closet off his bedroom—the one next to a small wash-closet, provided with a cracked basin, and two worn, nickeled faucets, out of which the water dribbled, droned, and grumbled, as if angry at being summoned as far up as the top floor.
As for the generous square living-room itself adjoining, its four windows commanding a view of both the back yard and Waverly Place, there remained barely an inch of wall space from floor to ceiling that did not hold a memory; old prints and older pictures in the tarnished gilt frames he had picked them up in, all these hung over three packed shelves of books. There was, too, a blackened fireplace, a mahogany desk, its cubby-holes choked with papers and old pipes, and opposite, a high cabinet of rosewood, its glass doors curtained in faded green silk, screening some excellent port, and the sermons of Spurgeon, two volumes of which lay among the heap of papers piled on the round centre-table directly back of Enoch’s favorite armchair.
Though the evening was mild, it did not prevent Enoch from having a cheery fire in his grate, or from settling himself before it, sunk in the generous leather arms of his favorite chair. He had, too, for company a short-stemmed, brier pipe purring contentedly between his teeth, and an early edition of “Vanity Fair” open upon his knees.
Mr. Enoch Crane’s door was closed as tight as his lips when the agent of The United Family Laundry Association rapped. Ebner Ford’s rap indicated that he was used to knocking at doors where he was not needed. His career as an agent had made him past master in intrusion and provided him with a gift of speech, both the result of long experience.
At Ford’s summons, Enoch started irritably, laid his pipe beside Mr. Thackeray’s masterpiece, rose with a scowl, shot an annoyed glance at his door, and striding over to it with a grunt, flung it open wide to the intruder with a curt nod of recognition.
“Couldn’t help paying my respects,” grinned Ford; “must be neighborly, you know,” and with that he advanced with a smile of assurance across the threshold.
Enoch had not opened his lips.