Part 38 (1/2)
”Ah! That makes it all the more interesting,” Ingpen added roguishly: ”I suppose you think you do know, Mrs. Benbow?”
Clara smiled the self-protective, non-committal smile of one who is not certain of having seen the point.
”It's very hot in here, Edwin,” she said, glancing at the door. The family filed out, shepherded by Edwin.
”I'll be back in a sec,” said he to Clara, on the stairs, and returned to the drawing-office.
Ingpen was in apparently close conversation with Karl.
”Yes,” murmured Ingpen, thoughtfully tapping his teeth. ”The whole process is practically a contest between grease and water on the stone.”
”Yes,” said Karl gruffly, but with respect.
And Edwin could almost see the tentacles of Ingpen's mind feeling and tightening round a new subject of knowledge, and greedily possessing it.
What a contrast to the vacuous indifference of Clara, who was so narrowed by specialisation that she could never apply her brain to anything except the welfare and the aggrandizement of her family! He dwelt sardonically upon the terrible results of family life on the individual, and dreamed of splendid freedoms.
”Mr. Clayhanger,” said Ingpen, in his official manner, turning.
The two withdrew to the door. Invisible, at the foot of the stairs, could be heard the family, existing.
”Haven't seen much of lithography, eh?” said Edwin, in a voice discreetly restrained.
Ingpen, ignoring the question, murmured:
”I say, you know this place is much too hot.”
”Well,” said Edwin. ”What do you expect in August?”
”But what's the object of all that gla.s.s roof?”
”I wanted to give 'em plenty of light. At the old shop they hadn't enough, and Karl, the Teuton there, was always grumbling.”
”Why didn't you have some ventilation in the roof?”
”We did think of it. But Johnnie Orgreave said if we did we should never be able to keep it watertight.”
”It certainly isn't right as it is,” said Ingpen. ”And our experience is that these skylighted rooms that are too hot in summer are too cold in winter. How should you like to have your private office in here?”
”Oh!” protested Edwin. ”It isn't so bad as all that.”
Ingpen said quietly:
”I should suggest you think it over--I mean the ventilation.”
”But you don't mean to say that this shop here doesn't comply with your confounded rules?”
Ingpen answered:
”That may or may not be. But we're ent.i.tled to make recommendations in any case, and I should like you to think this over, if you don't mind.
I haven't any thermometer with me, but I lay it's ninety degrees here, if not more.” In Ingpen's urbane, reasonable tone there was just a hint of the potential might of the whole organised kingdom.
”All serene,” said Edwin, rather ashamed of the temperature after all, and loyally responsive to Ingpen's evident sense of duty, which somehow surprised him; he had not chanced, before, to meet Ingpen at work; earthenware manufactories were inspected once a quarter, but other factories only once a year. The thought of the ameliorating influence that Ingpen must obviously be exerting all day and every day somewhat clashed with and overset his bitter scepticism concerning the real value of departmental administrative government,--a scepticism based less upon experience than upon the persuasive tirades of democratic apostles.