No pride, however, could have outclassed Rachel’s.  She had had a full day, and the evening was the crown of the day, because in the evening she was entertaining privately for the first time.  She was the one lady of the party; for these two men she represented woman, and they were her men.  They depended on her for their physical well-being, and not in vain.  She was the hostess; hers to command; hers the complex responsibility of the house.  She had begun supper with painful timidity, but the timidity had now nearly vanished in the flush of social success.  Critical as only a young wife can be, she was excellently well satisfied with Louis’ performance in the role of host.  She grew more than ever sure that there was only one Louis.  See him manipulate a cigarette—­it was the perfection of worldliness and agreeable, sensuous grace!  See him hold a match to Mr. Batchgrew’s cigarette!

Now Mr. Batchgrew smoked a cigarette clumsily.  He seemed not to be able to decide whether a cigarette was something to smoke or something to eat.  Mr. Batchgrew was more ungainly than ever, stretched in his characteristic attitude at an angle of forty-five degrees; his long whiskers were more absurdly than ever like two tails of a wire-haired white dog; his voice more coarsely than ever rolled about the room like undignified thunder.  He was an old, old man, and a sinister.  It was precisely his age that caressed Rachel’s pride.  That any man so old should have come to her house for supper, should be treating her as an equal and with the directness of allusion in conversation due to a married woman but improper to a young girl—­this was very sweet to Rachel.  The subdued stir made by Mrs. Tams in clearing the table was for Rachel a delicious background to the scene.  The one flaw in it was her short skirt, which she had not had time to change.  Louis had protested that it was entirely in order, and indeed admirably coquettish, but Rachel would have preferred a long train of soft drapery disposed with art round the front of her chair.

“What you want here is electricity,” said Thomas Batchgrew, gazing at the incandescent gas; he could never miss a chance, and was never discouraged in the pursuit of his own advantage.

“You think so?” murmured Louis genially.

“I could put ye in summat as ’u’d——­”

Rachel broke in a clear, calm decision—­

“I don’t think we shall have any electricity just yet.”

The gesture of the economical wife in her was so final that old Batchgrew raised his eyebrows with a grin at Louis, and Louis humorously drew down the corners of his mouth in response.  It was as if they had both said, in awe—­

“She has spoken!”

And Rachel, still further flattered and happy, was obliged to smile.

When Mrs. Tams had made her last tiptoe journey from the room and closed the door with due silent respect upon those great ones, the expression of Thomas Batchgrew’s face changed somewhat; he looked round, as though for spies, and then drew a packet of papers from his pocket.  And the expression of the other two faces changed also.  For the true purpose of the executor’s visit was now to be made formally manifest.