He was always pleased when people noticed Eliza, for he considered her a credit to the house.
The others made no remark, and Bates felt absurdly glad that he had seen her, not that it advanced his desire, but yet he was glad; and he had shown her, too, that she need not fear him.
And Eliza--she went on past the door to the verandah, and stood in sight of the boarders, who were there, in sight of the open street; but she did not see anyone or anything.

She was too common a figure at that door to be much noticed, but if anyone had observed her it would have been seen that she was standing stolidly, not taking part in what was before her, but that her white face, which never coloured prettily like other women's, bore now a deepening tint, as if some pale torturing flame were lapping about her; there was something on her face that suggested the quivering of flames.
In a few minutes she went back into the bar-room.
"Mr.Hutchins," she said, and here followed a request, that was almost a command, that he should attend to something needing his oversight in the stable-yard.
Hutchins grumbled, apologised to Bates; but Eliza stood still, and he went.

She continued to stand, and her attitude, her forbidding air, the whole atmosphere of her presence, was such that the two men who were on the eve of departure went some minutes before they otherwise would have done, though perhaps they hardly knew why they went.
"Mr.Bates! You're awfully angry with me, Mr.Bates, I'm afraid." He got up out of his chair, in his petty vanity trying to stand before her as if he were a strong man.

"Angry!" he echoed, for he did not know what he said.
"Yes, you're angry; I know by the way you looked at me," she complained sullenly.

"You think I'm not fit to look at, or to speak to, and--" They stood together in the common bar-room.