y in its friendliness. A
lean, hungry-looking man came in, bought a paper, and stayed turning
over the books. She could not see his face, but something in his
movement told of quality of wit and precise consciousness. He seized a
book with a familiar mastery, as though he could savour and weigh its
contents through his finger-tips, glanced through it, and put it away
as though it were finally disposed of. There was a concentrated
absorption in everything he did that made it definite and final. He
was so sensitive that at the approach of another person he edged away
as though to avoid a distasteful impact.... Very shabby he was, but
distinguished and original. After taking up half a dozen books and not
finding in them any attraction, he stopped, pondered, and moved out of
the shop quite obviously having clearly in his mind some necessary and
inevitable purpose.

His going was a wrench to Clara, so wholly had she been absorbed in
him; but though she longed to know his name she could not bring herself
to ask her old friend who he was. That did not matter. He was, and
Charing Cross Road had become a hallowed place by profound experience,
the bookshop a room beyond all others holy.

For some time longer, Clara sat in silence with her old friend, who lit
his after-luncheon pipe and sat cross-legged, blinking and ruminant.
She stared into the shop, and still it seemed that the remarkable
figure was standing there fingering the books, pondering, deciding.
Her emotions thrilled through her, uplifted her, and she had a
sensation of being deliciously intimate with all things animate and
inanimate. She touched the desk by her side, and it seemed to her that
life tingled through her fingers into the wood. She smiled at the old
man, and his eyes twitched, and he gave her a little happy sidelong
nod. She wanted to tell him that the world was a very wonderful place,
but she could only keep on smiling, and as she left the shop, the
bookseller thrust his hat on the back of his head, scratched his beard,
and said,--

'Pegs! I said to Jenny she'll bring me luck. But she's wasted on yon
birkie ca'd a lord.'

IX

MAGIC

A friendly city seemed London to Clara as she left the shop. A fresh
wind was blowing, and she stood for some moments to drink in the keen
air. The sky was full of clouds, gray, white, and cinnamon against the
smoky blue, as she turned south with eyes newly eager for beauty and
friendliness. Ab