“Now here’s a book that ought to suit Mrs. Arb,” said Mr. Earlforward, picking a volume from the shelf and moving towards the entrance, where the clear daylight was. “Snacks and Titbits. Let me see. Sandwiches.” He turned over leaves. “Sandwiches. There’s nearly seven pages about sandwiches.”
“How much would it be, sir?”
“One shilling.”
“Oh! She said she couldn’t pay more than sixpence, sir, she said.”
Mr. Earlforward looked up with a fresh interest. He was exhilarated, even inspired, by the conception of a woman who, wishing to brighten her business with a new line of goods, was not prepared to spend more than sixpence on the indispensable basis of the enterprise. The conception powerfully appealed to him, and his regard for Mrs. Arb increased.
“See here, Elsie. Take this over for Mrs. Arb to look at. And tell her, with my compliments, that you can’t get cookery-books—not any that are any good—for sixpence in these days.”
“Yes, sir.”
Elsie put the book under her aprons and hurried off.
“She sends you her compliments, and she says she can’t pay more than sixpence, sir. I’m that sorry, sir,” Elsie announced, returning.
Mr. Earlforward blandly replaced the book on its shelf, and Elsie waited in vain for any comment, then left.
“I say, Elsie,” he recalled her. “It’s not raining much, but it might soon. As you’re here, you’d better help me in with the stand. That’ll save me taking the books out before it’s moved, and it’ll save you trouble in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Elsie eagerly agreed.
One at either end of it, they lugged within the heavy bookstand that stretched along the length of the window on the flagstones outside the shop. The books showed scarcely a trace of the drizzle.
“Thank you, Elsie.”
“Don’t mention it, sir.”
Mr. Earlforward switched on one electric light in the middle of the shop, switched off the light in his den, and lit a candle there. Then he took a thermos flask, a cup, and two slices of bread on a plate from the interior of the grandfather’s clock, poured steaming tea into the cup, and enjoyed his evening meal. When the bell of St. Andrew’s jangled six, he shut and darkened the shop. The war habit of closing early suited him very well for several reasons. Then, blowing out the candle, he began again to burn electricity in the den, and tapped slowly and moved to and fro with deliberation, examining book-titles, tapping out lists, tapping out addresses on envelopes, licking stamps, and performing other pleasant little tasks of routine. And all the time he dwelt with exquisite pleasure on the bodily appearance and astonishing moral characteristics of Mrs. Arb. What a woman! He had been right about that woman from the first glance. She was a woman in a million.
At a quarter to seven he put his boots on and collected his letters for the post. But before leaving to go to the post he suddenly thought of a ten-shilling Treasury note received from Dr. Raste, and took it from his waistcoat pocket. It was a beautiful new note, a delicate object, carefully folded by someone who understood that new notes deserve good treatment. He put it, with other less brilliant cash, into the safe. As he departed from the shop for the post office at Mount Pleasant, he picked out Snacks and Titbits from its shelf again, and slipped it into his side-pocket.
The rain had ceased. He inhaled the fresh, damp air with an innocent and genuine delight. Mrs. Arb’s shop was the sole building illuminated in Riceyman Steps; it looked warm and feminine; it attracted. The church rose darkly, a formidable mass, in the opening at the top of the steps. The little group of dwelling-houses next to his own establishment showed not a sign of life; they seldom did; he knew nothing of their tenants, and felt absolutely no curiosity concerning them. His little yard abutted on the yard of the nearest house, but the wall between them was seven feet high; no sound ever came over it.
He turned into the main road. Although he might have dropped his correspondence into the pillar-box close by, he preferred to go to the mighty Mount Pleasant organism, with its terrific night-movement of vans and flung mailbags, because it seemed surer, safer, for his letters.
Like many people who live alone, he had a habit of talking to himself in the street. His thoughts would from time to time suddenly burst almost with violence into a phrase. Then he would smile to himself. “Me at my age!” … “Yes, and of course there’s that!” … “Want some getting used to!” … He would laugh rather sheepishly.
The vanquished were already beginning to creep into the mazes of Rowton House. They clicked through a turnstile—that was all he knew about existence in Rowton House, except that there were plants with large green leaves in the windows of the common-room. Some of the vanquished entered with boldness, but the majority walked furtively. Just opposite Rowton House the wisdom and enterprise of two railway companies had filled a blank wall with a large poster exhibiting the question: “Why not take a winter holiday where sunshine reigns?” etc. Beneath this blank wall a newsman displayed the posters of the evening papers, together with stocks of the papers. Mr. Earlforward always read the placards for news.
