TURGIS SEES HER 167

!ight fog across its old stones like the return of an army
of ghosts. Until—with a clatter, a clang, a sudden raw
awakening—Monday,

Papers were swept into drawers, letters were stamped
in rows, blotters were shut, turned over, put away,
ledgers and petty cash-boxes were locked up, typewriters
were covered, noses were powdered, cigarettes and pipes
were lit, doors were banged, and stairs were noisy with
hasty feet. The week was done. Out they came in
their thousands into Angel Pavement, London Wall,
Moorgate Street, Cornhill and Cheapside. They were
so thick along Finsbury Pavement that the Moorgate
Tube Station seemed like a monster sucking them down
into its hot rank-inside. Among these vanishing mites
was one with a large but not masterful nose, full
brown eyes, a slightly open mouth, and a drooping
chin. This was Turgis going home.

He had to stand all the way, and though there were
at least five nice-looking girls in the same compartment
—and one was very close to him, and two of the others
he had noticed several times before—not one of them
showed the slightest interest in him.

WHEN Turgis returned again to the earth's surface, he
plunged at once into the noise and litter of High Street,
Camden Town, and then turned up the Kentish Town
Road, for he lodged in Nathaniel Street, which lies in
that conglomeration of short streets between the
Kentish Town Road and York Road. He was rather
later than usual, for this new Golspie business was