read books when he had a chance, books that told of glorious places

abroad and glorious times, that wrung a rich humour from life and

contained the delight of words freshly and expressively grouped. But

alas! there are not many such books, and for the newspapers and the

cheap fiction that abounded more and more in the world Mr. Polly had

little taste. There was no epithet in them. And there was no one to

talk to, as he loved to talk. And he had to mind his shop.

It was a reluctant little shop from the beginning.

He had taken it to escape the doom of Johnson's choice and because

Fishbourne had a hold upon his imagination. He had disregarded the

ill-built cramped rooms behind it in which he would have to lurk and

live, the relentless limitations of its dimensions, the inconvenience

of an underground kitchen that must necessarily be the living-room in

winter, the narrow yard behind giving upon the yard of the Royal

Fishbourne Hotel, the tiresome sitting and waiting for custom, the

restricted prospects of trade. He had visualised himself and Miriam

first as at breakfast on a clear bright winter morning amidst a

tremendous smell of bacon, and then as having muffins for tea. He had

also thought of sitting on the beach on Sunday afternoons and of going

for a walk in the country behind the town and picking marguerites

and poppies. But, in fact, Miriam and he were extremely cross at

breakfast, and it didn't run to muffins at tea. And she didn't think

it looked well, she said, to go trapesing about the country on

Sundays.

184

The History of Mr Polly