attention.

Now if you had noticed anything about him, it would have been chiefly to

notice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, the

black tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadow

and mystery below the counter) of his craft. He was of a pallid

complexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and a

skimpy, immature moustache under his peaked indeterminate nose.

His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette of pins

decorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe, were

entirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to the

occasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart.

This, madam," he would say, "is selling very well." "We are doing a

very good article at four three a yard." "We could show you something

better, of course." "No trouble, madam, I assure you." Such were the

simple counters of his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presented

himself to your superficial observation. He would have danced about

behind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you,

have put on one side those you selected, extracted a little book with

a carbon leaf and a tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a little

bill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled

"Sayn!" Then a puffy little shop-walker would have come into view,

looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a parting

down the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a still more

flourishing J. M. all over the document, have asked you if there

was nothing more, have stood by you--supposing that you were paying

The Wheels of Chance