A customer enters with an inquiry for a set of sables.
“Forward furs,” the shopwalker commands—he actually is a full corporal in the Territorials—and the lady finds herself confronted at the counter by a young man with a Bond Street frock-coat and a Regent Street smile, who says—
“Sables, madam? Certainly.”
He leaves her for a few moments and returns with an armful of furs, which he displays, laying each piece over his arm and smoothing it down as if it were—well, a sort of cat.
“Price, madam?” He refers to a ticket. “Two hundred guineas, madam—all Russian. Something not quite so expensive? Certainly, madam.” Once again he goes away and returns with another armful. “These are quite superior furs, madam. Real sable? Certainly, madam, real Musquash sable. Sixty-five pounds. Something cheaper, madam? Certainly. I have a very nice line of inexpensive sables that I think you will like.” He beckons to a young lady farther up the counter, and she brings him a bundle of tawny skins, which he displays as before. “A very nice line, madam—very chaste and showy. Real sable? Oh, certainly—real electric sable, every piece. Price, madam? Nine guineas, including muff. Something cheaper still? Certainly, madam.” He climbs up a small and handy ladder and lifts down a large pasteboard box full of furs. “These, madam—very tasteful—large amount of wear—sell a great number of these. Real sable? Certainly, madam, real rabbit sable, thirty-nine and eleven. Something rather less? Certainly, madam.” He pulls down another box, takes off the lid, and exposes skins. “Nice lot these, madam, very highly thought of—largely worn in London this season. Real sable, madam? Certainly, madam—real ox-tail sable, ten and six the set. Shall we send them? Thank you. What name, please? Johnston—with the t? Thank you. And the next article, madam? Oh yes, this afternoon for certain.”
That is the sort of business house you find in the High Street, Burford, in these days; so that there can hardly be a doubt that it is time the thoroughfare changed its name to King's Parade. If people want genuine ox-tail sables they will go to a King's Parade for it much more readily than they would to a High Street. But there is a deeper depth in sables that a customer can only reach in a Royal Avenue; this is the genuine charwoman's sable at three and eleven, muff included. Messrs. Shenstone & Co. are, however, select and conscientious; they will not sell you as the real article anything that will not bear the closest scrutiny, and their ox-tail sable marks the limit to which they will go. It may be foolish in these go-ahead days to have any scruples, but Messrs. Shenstone are ready to submit to any reproach rather than to give a customer, however humble, a misleading description of any article.
II.—LIBRARIANS WHILE YOU WAIT
As a matter of course, Burford has a Public Library of its own. The Corporation had a chance of acquiring a library that had been in existence for some years: it had been built as a memorial to her husband by a wealthy lady in the neighbourhood, and it contained several thousand volumes of the “improving” sort which were so much in favour with fathers and mothers and uncles and aunts—in fact, with all manner of people except readers—fifty or sixty years ago. For purposes of a public library such a collection is absurd, and should have been consigned to one of the Corporation's rubbish carts without delay, together with its Encyclopaedias dated 1812. The books were, however, allowed to encumber the shelves, and there they remain unto this day, to assist in the culture of much that would interest an earnest bacteriologist. To the majority of the members of the Corporation, however, “a book's a book although there's nothing in it,” and their “library” is packed with books and bacteria, both happily undisturbed for years.