He saw beneath their rooves of ostrich
feathers the girls shake their long earrings above sweet violets and
roses fainting with desire to be bought by country cousins.
"Where is eleven hundred Z, if you please?" he asked the Shaftesbury
Avenue policeman.
"Jellybrand's sir? On the right between the cream shop and the engine
warehouse, just opposite the place where they sell parrots, after that
there patent medicine depot."
The Prophet bowed, thinking of the blessings of knowledge. In a moment
he stood before the library and glanced at its dirty window. He saw
several letters lying against the glass. One was addressed to "Miss
Minerva Partridge." He stepped in, wondering what she was like.
Jellybrand's Library was a small, square room containing a letter rack,
a newspaper stand, a bookcase and a counter. It was fitted up with
letters, papers, books, and a big boy with a bulging head. The
last-named stood behind the counter, stroking his irregular profile with
one hand, and throwing a box of J nibs into the air and catching it with
the other. Upon the Prophet's entrance this youth obligingly dropped the
nibs accidentally upon the floor, and arranged his sharp and anemic
face in an expression of consumptive inquiry.
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