It was a very small shop that competed in a spirited way with the Italian warehouse. It sold boots, too—hobnailed boots hung in banks from the ceiling—and a small but sprightly linen-drapery business went on behind a counter at right angles to the counter that sold tinned salmon and tea.
Chopping, who owned this emporium, was a pale-faced man, consumptive, and sycophantic, with a horrible habit of washing his hands with invisible soap when any of the carriage people of Crowsnest entered his little shop. This is a desperately bad sign in an Englishman; as a symptom of mental and moral depravity it has almost died out. In the early and mid Victorian age, in the era of little shops and small hotels, it was marked; but it lingers still here and there in England, and when one meets with it it makes one almost a convert to Socialism.
Mr. Chopping washed his hands before Miss Grimshaw, for, though the Frenches were not carriage people, they owned horses and were part of the social state of Crowsnest; and Miss Grimshaw wondered if Mr. Chopping would have washed his hands so vigorously if he had known all.
There was a big notice of the forthcoming bazaar hanging behind the drapery counter.
This bazaar had become a bugbear to the girl. Amid her other distractions she was working a table-cover for it, and Effie, who was clever with her needle, was embroidering a tea-cosy. If the thing were a failure, and the sum necessary for reconstructing the choir stalls in the church were not forthcoming, there was sure to be a subscription, and money was horribly tight, and growing tighter every day.
Things had managed themselves marvellously well up to this, thanks to French's luck. The unfortunate gentleman, whose pocket-money under the strict hand of Miss Grimshaw did not exceed ten shillings a week, had managed to make that sum do. More than that, he wore the cloak of his poverty in such a way that it seemed the garment of affluence. The ready laugh, the bright eye, and the jovial face of Mr. French made the few halfpence he jingled in his pocket sound like sovereigns. He played bridge with so much success that he just managed to keep things even; and the rare charm of his genial personality made him a general favourite.
"Shall we go back, or go for a little walk down the road?" asked Miss Grimshaw, as she left the post-office and rejoined her cavalier.
"A walk, by all means," replied Mr. Dashwood. "Let's go this way. Well, go on, and tell me about the sheep."
"Oh, the sheep! Yes, there it was, struggling in the moonlight; they were trying to get it into the loose box next the one The Cat's in; and they did, Andy jostling it behind and Moriarty pulling it by the head. Then they shut the door."
"Yes?"