l8o ANGEL PAVEMENT

upper storeys, and cold science working in the base-
ment. Such was the gigantic teashop into which Turgis
marched, in search not of mere refreshment but of all
the enchantment of unfamiliar luxury. Perhaps he
knew in his heart that men have conquered half the
known world, looted whole kingdoms, and never
arrived at such luxury. The place was built for him.

It was built for a great many other people too, and, as
usual, they were all there. It steamed with humanity.
The marble entrance hall, piled dizzily with bonbon;
and cakes, was as crowded and bustling as a railway
station. The gloom and grime of the streets, the raw air,
all November, were at once left behind, forgotten; the
atmosphere inside was golden, tropical, belonging to
some high midsummer of confectionery. Disdaining
the lifts, Turgis, once more excited by the sight, sound,
and smell of it all, climbed the wide staircase until he
reached his favourite floor, where an orchestra, led by a
young Jewish violinist with wandering lustrous eyes and
a passion for tremolo effects, acted as a magnet to a
thousand girls. The door was swung open for him by a
page; there burst, like a sugary bomb, the clatter of
cups, the shrill clatter of white-and-vermilion girls, and,
cleaving the golden, scented air, the sensuous clamour
of the strings; and, as he stood hesitating a moment, half
dazed, there came, bowing, a sleek grave man, older than
he was and far more distinguished than he could ever
hope to be, who murmured deferentially: "For one,
sir? This way, please/' Shyly, yet proudly, Turgis
followed him.

That was the snag really, though. This place was so
crowded that you had to take the seat they offered you;
there was no picking and choosing your company at the