Mary's. Whether
you approached it from the river, or from the City, or from the west,
you could see nothing else, so monstrous was it, so flagrant and so
new. Though the day was not yet done, the electric light streamed over
the pavement from the huge windows of the ground floor; a coronal of
dazzling globes hung over the doorway at the corner; there, as you
turned, the sombre windows of the second-hand department stretched
half way down the side street; here, in the great thoroughfare, the
newest of new books stood out, solicitous and alluring, in suits of
blazing scarlet and vivid green, of vellum and gilt, of polished
leather that shone like amber and malachite and lapis lazuli.
Within, a wall broken by a wide and lofty arch divided the front from
the back shop. On the right of the arch was the mahogany pew of the
cashier, on the left, a tall pillar stove radiating intolerable heat.
Four steps led through the arch into the back shop, the floor of
which was raised in a sort of platform. On the platform was a table,
and at the table sat the young man compiling the Quarterly Catalogue.
Front shop and back shop reeked with the smells of new mahogany, dust,
pillar-stove, gum, hot-pressed paper and Russia leather. He sat in the
middle of them, in an atmosphere so thick that it could be seen
hanging about him like an aura, luminous in the glare of the electric
light. His slender, nervous hands worked rapidly, with a business-like
air of dexterity and dispatch.
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