He looked what he was, an Englishman
and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton, who could and did
make his own way in the world. His features, coloured, as from a deep
liverishness, were thick, like his body, and not ill-natured, except for
a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes. He said in a
voice permanently gruff, but impregnated with a species of professional
ingratiation:
"Ye-es? Whom 'ave I--?"
"Mrs. Fiorsen."
"Ow!" The sound of his breathing could be heard distinctly; he twisted a
chair round and said:
"Take a seat, won't you?"
Gyp shook her head.
In Mr. Wagge's face a kind of deference seemed to struggle with some
more primitive emotion. Taking out a large, black-edged handkerchief,
he blew his nose, passed it freely over his visage, and turning to his
daughter, muttered:
"Go upstairs."
The girl turned quickly, and the last glimpse of her white face whipped
up Gyp's rage against men. When the door was shut, Mr. Wagge cleared his
throat; the grating sound carried with it the suggestion of enormously
thick linings.
He said more gruffly than ever:
"May I ask what 'as given us the honour?"
"I came to see your daughter."
His little piggy eyes travelled from her face to her feet, to the walls
of the room, to his own watch-chain, to his hands that had begun to rub
themselves together, back to her breast, higher than which they dared
not mount.
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