“The good old Book!” he said.  “I’ve been after that volume for six months and more.  I knew I should get it, but he’s a stiff un—­yon is,” jerking his shoulder in the direction of the second-hand bookseller.  Then he put the folio under his arm, delighted at the souvenir of having worsted somebody in a bargain, and repeated, “The good old Book!”

Rachel reflected—­

“You unspeakable old sinner!”

Still, she liked his attitude towards herself.  In addition to the book he insisted on carrying a small white parcel of hers which she had not put into the reticule.  They climbed the steps out of the covered market and walked along the market-place together.  And Rachel unmistakably did find pleasure in being seen thus with the great and powerful, if much criticized, Thomas Batchgrew, him to whom several times, less than a year earlier, she had scathingly referred as that man.  His escort in the thoroughfare, and especially his demeanour towards herself, gave her a standing which she could otherwise scarcely have attained.  Moreover, people might execrate him in private, but that he had conquered the esteem of their secret souls was well proved by their genuine eagerness to salute him as he walked sniffing along.  He counted himself one of the seven prides of the district, and perhaps he was not far out.

“Come in a minute, lass,” he said in a low, confidential voice, as they reached his branch shop, just beyond Malkin’s.  “I’ll—­” He paused.

A motor, apparently enormous, was buzzing motion-less in the wide entry by the side of the shop.  It very slowly moved forward, crossed the footpath and half the street opposite the Town Hall, impeding a tram-car, and then curved backward into a position by the kerbstone.  John’s Ernest was at the steering-wheel.  Councillor Batchgrew stood still with his mouth open to watch the manoeuvre.

“This is John’s Ernest—­my son John’s eldest.  Happen ye know him?” said Batchgrew to Rachel.  “He’s a good lad.”

John’s Ernest, a pleasant-featured young man of twenty-five, blushed and raised his hat.  And Rachel also blushed as she nodded.  It was astonishing that old Batchgrew could have a grandson with so honest a look on his face, but she had heard that son John, too, was very different from his father.

“Dunna go till I’ve seen thee,” said Mr. Batchgrew to John’s Ernest, and to Rachel, “Come in, Mrs. Fores.”

John’s Ernest silenced the car, and extricated himself with practised rapidity from the driver’s seat.

“Where are ye going?” asked his grandfather.

“I’m going to lock the garage doors,” said John’s Ernest, with a humorous smile which seemed to add, “Unless you’d like them to be left open all Saturday afternoon.”  Rachel vividly remembered the playful, boyish voice which she had heard one night when the motor-car had called to take Mr. Batchgrew to Red Cow.

The councillor nodded.