irious
Wednesday and Thursday marking down, and then open on Friday
afternoon. In the evening there was a crush. A good moire underskirt
for one-and-eleven-three was not to be neglected, and a handsome
string-lace collarette for six-three would iron out and be worth at
least three-and-six. That was how it went: it would nearly all of
it iron out into something really nice, poor James' crumpled stock.
His fine, semi-transparent face flushed pink, his eyes flashed as he
took in the sixpences and handed back knots of tape or packets of
pins for the notorious farthings. What matter if the farthing change
had originally cost him a halfpenny! His shop was crowded with women
peeping and pawing and turning things over and commenting in loud,
unfeeling tones. For there were still many comic items. Once, for
example, he suddenly heaped up piles of hats, trimmed and untrimmed,
the weirdest, sauciest, most screaming shapes. Woodhouse enjoyed
itself that night.

And all the time, in her quiet, polite, think-the-more fashion Miss
Pinnegar waited on the people, showing them considerable forbearance
and just a tinge of contempt. She became very tired those
evenings--her hair under its invisible hairnet became flatter, her
cheeks hung down purplish and mottled. But while James stood she
stood. The people did not like her, yet she influenced them. And the
stock slowly wilted, withered. Some was scrapped. The shop seemed to
have digested some of its indigestible contents.

James accumulated sixpences in a miserly fashion. Luckily for her
work-girls, Miss Pinnegar took her own orders, and received payments
for her own productions. Some of her regular customers paid her a
shilling a week--or less. But it made a small, steady income. She
reserved her own modest share, paid the expenses of her department,
and left the residue to James.

James had accumulated sixpences, and made a little space in his
shop. He had desisted from "creations." Time now for a new flight.
He decided it was better to be a manufacturer than a tradesman. His
shop, already only half its original size, was again too big. It
might be split once more. Rents had risen in Woodhouse. Why not cut
off another shop from his premises?

No sooner said than done. In came the architect, with whom he had
played many a game of chess. Best, said the architect, take off one
good-sized shop, rather than halve the premises. James would be left
a little cramped, a little tight, with