of drawers that had nothing substantial about them
but the marble; the cabinets with flimsy untrustworthy
locks and glass that distorted because of its cheapness;
the plush piano-covers with applique flowers and
borders of tinsel that a breath would tarnish. . . .
There were rugs of so-called Oriental designs that
had never known the Orient or its weavers; there were
clocks whose outsides suggested Buhl, but whose
insides suggested an operation; there were trays
made for Europe by a crafty Japan who was careful
that she herself did not use them; there were joss-
sticks whose smell would have brought a blush to the
cheeks of the most hardened heathen idol; there
were pictures in iniquitous machine-carved frames,
pictures covertly suggestive and crudely sentimental.
And hanging in the very midst of it all — a most lovely,
simple, and truthful conception — was 'The Angelus5
framed in grave, quiet oak, looking as helplessly out
of place as a nun who should find herself in a brothel.
Jousc stood with his hands thrust deep into his
pockets while his eyes grew incredulous and then angry;
a man who had toiled for many long years he had
earned a right of kinship to that picture, to the
humble yet unparalleled dignity of patient, enduring,
and honest labour.
Marie asked him timidly: 'Shall we go in?5
He nodded, and they turned and entered the
building.
Kahn saw them and pushed his way through the
crowd: 'I am proud to make your acquaintance,' he
said suavely, and he held out a hand which Jouse
ignored.
el have come here to buy a rug for my wife — and a
cuckoo-clock.' Jouse told him briefly.
cAnd a gramophone!5 chirped le tout petit Loup,
glancing out of the corner of an eye at Christophe.
They made their way down to the now transformed
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