“I really haven’t thought.” The customer gave a slight good-humoured snigger. “I suppose it would be nice to have pictures to look at.”
“I have a good clean Boydell, and a Dalziel. But perhaps they’d be rather big.”
“Um!”
“You can’t hold them, except on a desk or on your knee.”
“Ah! That wouldn’t do! Oh, not at all!” The customer, who was nonplussed by the names mentioned, snatched at the opportunity given to decline them.
“I’ve got a nice little edition in eight volumes, very handy, with outline drawings by Flaxman, and nicely printed. You don’t often see it. Not like any other Shakespeare I know of. Quite cheap too.”
“Um!”
“I’ll see if I can put my hand on it.”
The shop was full of bays formed by bookshelves protruding at right-angles from the walls. The first bay was well lighted and tidy; but the others, as they receded into the gloomy backward of the shop, were darker and darker and untidier and untidier. The effect was of mysterious and vast populations of books imprisoned forever in everlasting shade, chained, deprived of air and sun and movement, hopeless, resigned, martyrized. The bookseller stepped over piles of cast books into the farthest bay, which was carpeted a foot thick with a disorder of volumes, and lighted a candle.
“You don’t use the electric light in that corner,” said the client, briskly following. He pointed to a dust-covered lamp in the grimy ceiling.
“Fuse gone. They do go,” the bookseller answered blandly; and the blandness was not in the least impaired by his private thought that the customer’s remark came near to impudence. Searching, he went on: “We’re not quite straight here yet. The truth is, we haven’t been straight since 1914.”
“Dear me! Five years!”
Another piece of good-humoured cheek.
“I suppose you couldn’t step in tomorrow?” the bookseller suggested, after considerable groping and spilling of tallow.
“Afraid not,” said the customer with polite reluctance. “Very busy … I was just passing and it struck me.”
“The Globe edition is very good, you know … Standard text. Macmillans. Nothing better of the sort. I could sell you that for three-and-six.”
“Sounds promising,” said the customer brightly.
The bookseller blew out the candle and dusted one hand with the other.
“Of course it’s not illustrated.”
“Oh, well, after all, a Shakespeare’s for reading, isn’t it?” said the customer, for whom Shakespeare was a volume, not a man.
While the bookseller was wrapping up the green Globe Shakespeare in a creased bit of brown paper with an addressed label on it—he put the label inside—the customer cleared his throat and said with a nervous laugh:
“I think you employ here a young charwoman, don’t you?”
The bookseller looked up in mild surprise, peering. He was startled and alarmed, but his feelings seldom appeared on his face.
“I do.” He thought: “What is this inquisitive fellow getting at? It’s not what I call manners, anyhow.”
“Her name’s Elsie, I think. I don’t know her surname.”
The bookseller went on with his packing and said naught.
“As I’m here I thought I might as well ask you,” the customer continued with a fresh nervous laugh. “I ought to explain that my name’s Raste, Dr. Raste, of Myddelton Square. Dare say you’ve heard of me. From your name your family belongs to the district?”
“Yes,” agreed the bookseller. “I do.”
He was very proud of the name Riceyman, and he did not explain that it was the name only of his deceased uncle, and that his own name was Earlforward.
“I’ve got a lad in my service,” the doctor continued. “Shell-shock case. He’s improving, but I find he’s running after this girl Elsie. Quite OK, of course. Most respectable. Only it’s putting him off his work, and I just thought as I happened to be in here you wouldn’t mind me asking you about her. Is she a good girl? I’d like him to marry—if it’s the right sort. Might do him a lot of good.”
“She’s right enough,” answered the bookseller calmly and indifferently. “I’ve nothing against her.”
“Had her long?”
“Oh, some time.”
The bookseller said no more. Beneath his impassive and courteous exterior he hid a sudden spasm of profound agitation. The next minute Dr. Raste departed, but immediately returned.
“Afraid your books outside are getting a bit wet,” he cried from the doorway.
“Thank you. Thank you,” said the bookseller mildly and unperturbed, thinking: “He must be a managing and interfering kind of man. Can’t I run my own business?”
Some booksellers kept waterproof covers for their outside display, but this one did not. He had found in practice that a few drops of rain did no harm to low-priced volumes.
III
The Bookseller at Home
At the back of the rather spacious and sombre shop (which by reason of the bays of bookshelves seemed larger than it really was) came a small room, with a doorway, but no door, into the shop. This was the proprietor’s den. Seated at his desk therein he could see through a sort of irregular lane of books to the bright oblong of the main entrance, which was seldom closed. There were more books to the cubic foot in the private room even than in the shop. They rose in tiers to the ceiling and they lay in mounds on the floor; they also covered most of the flat desk and all the windowsill; some were perched on the silent grandfather’s clock, the sole piece of furniture except the desk, a safe, and two chairs, and a stepladder for reaching the higher shelves.
The bookseller retired to this room, as to a retreat, upon the departure of Dr. Raste, and looked about, fingering one thing or another in a mild, amicable manner, and disclosing not the least annoyance, ill-humour, worry, or pressure of work. He sat down to a cumbrous old typewriter on the desk, and after looking at some correspondence, inserted a sheet of cheap letter-paper into the machine. The printed letterhead on the sheet
