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Hefilled his trousers as though he had been melted and then pouredinto them.
George, she said, youve got the mostwonderful eyes in the world. Yonges novels,
and hadthe appearance of having been slept on for many years. Could you write
even a penny novelette without money to putheart in you? He almost wanted to
laugh at them, they were so feeble, so dead-alive, so unappetizing.
His face
said that hewould leave the shop if his privacy were disturbed again.
Above, a
coarserich voice was singing, Whos afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Was that the
chappie who was always wanderingabout in the mountains in Mexico?
I wonder
whether you have Hugh Walpoles latest book? A docilelittle porker, sitting in
the money-sty, drinking Bovex. He threw a roly-polyarm affectionately round
Gordons shoulders.
Sauce advertisement fluttered sharply, like a piece of
washing onthe line.
Even the Dells and Deepings do at least turnout their
yearly acre of print.
He was a habitue of bookshops, yet never stayedlonger
than ten minutes in any one shop.
It was four days nowsince she had written.
But of course, like other fat people, he never admittedto being fat.
Youve got
eyes just like an eagle,she said.
The clock over the Prince of Wales struck
aquarter past three. Desolation, emptiness, prophecies of doom. But my
son-in-law, now, es more for Burroughs.
There was a threatening note in itas it
swept over; the first growl of winters anger. Wotcher make me take em out o me
bag for, then?
Hair mouse-coloured andunkempt, mouth unamiable, eyes hazel
inclining to green. However, Villon at the same age was poxed on his own
showing. Suddenly a ravishing, irresistible desire to smoke came overGordon.
He
moved on through theopen doorway into the front part of the shop.
After all,
there was more there than mere silliness, greed,and vulgarity. A youth of
twenty, cherry-lipped, with gilded hair, trippedNancifully in. Behind them were
three isolated yellowteeth.
A tram boomed across the square, andthe clock over
the Prince of Wales struck three.
Gordon had taken off his sour expression. And
the money that such refinement means! There didnt seem to be any more books by
GeneStratton Porter, their favourite. There was a threatening note in itas it
swept over; the first growl of winters anger. All humanrelationships must be
purchased with money.
The Nancy had put his book back inthe wrong shelf and
vanished.
Like all small frailpeople, he hated being touched.
Hes so broad, so
universal, and yet at the same timeso thoroughly English in spirit, so HUMAN.
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