“Lift this way! This way to the lift!” bawled a voice.
“What's a lift?” whispered Hephzy, tremulously, “Hosy, what's a lift?”
“An elevator,” I whispered in reply.
“But we can't go on board a steamboat in an elevator, can we? I never heard—”
I don't know what she never heard. The sentence was not finished. Into the lift we went. On either side of us were men in evening dress and directly in front was a large woman, hatless and opera-cloaked, with diamonds in her ears and a rustle of silk at every point of her persons. The car reeked with perfume.
The large woman wriggled uneasily.
“George,” she said, in a loud whisper, “why do they crowd these lifts in this disgusting way? And WHY,” with another wriggle, “do they permit PERSONS with packages to use them?”
As we emerged from the elevator Hephzy whispered again.
“She meant us, Hosy,” she said. “I've got three of those books of yours in this bundle under my arm. I COULDN'T squeeze 'em into either of the valises. But she needn't have been so disagreeable about it, need she.”
Still following the crowd, we passed through more wide doorways and into a huge loft where, through mammoth openings at our left, the cool air from the river blew upon our faces. Beyond these openings loomed an enormous something with rows of railed walks leading up its sides. Hephzibah and I, moving in a sort of bewildered dream, found ourselves ascending one of these walks. At its end was another doorway and, beyond, a great room, with more elevators and a mosaic floor, and mahogany and gilt and gorgeousness, and silk and broadcloth and satin.