emerged into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings all round. It
was littered with straw and boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine actually
caught one crate whose straw was streaming on to the yard like gold. But
elsewhere the place was like a pit. There were several doors, and two
flights of steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door at the top of
a staircase, loomed the ominous words "Thomas Jordan and Son--Surgical
Appliances." Mrs. Morel went first, her son followed her. Charles I
mounted his scaffold with a lighter heart than had Paul Morel as he
followed his mother up the dirty steps to the dirty door.

She pushed open the door, and stood in pleased surprise. In front of her
was a big warehouse, with creamy paper parcels everywhere, and clerks,
with their shirt-sleeves rolled back, were going about in an at-home
sort of way. The light was subdued, the glossy cream parcels seemed
luminous, the counters were of dark brown wood. All was quiet and very
homely. Mrs. Morel took two steps forward, then waited. Paul stood
behind her. She had on her Sunday bonnet and a black veil; he wore a
boy's broad white collar and a Norfolk suit.

One of the clerks looked up. He was thin and tall, with a small face.
His way of looking was alert. Then he glanced round to the other end of
the room, where was a glass office. And then he came forward. He did
not say anything, but leaned in a gentle, inquiring fashion towards Mrs.
Morel.

"Can I see Mr. Jordan?" she asked.

"I'll fetch him," answered the young man.

He went down to the glass office. A red-faced, white-whiskered old man
looked up. He reminded Paul of a pomeranian dog. Then the same little
man came up the room. He had short legs, was rather stout, and wore
an alpaca jacket. So, with one ear up, as it were, he came stoutly and
inquiringly down the room.

"Good-morning!" he said, hesitating before Mrs. Morel, in doubt as to
whether she were a customer or not.

"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul Morel. You asked him to call
this morning."

"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a rather snappy little manner
intended to be businesslike.

They followed the manufacturer into a grubby little room, upholstered
in black American leather, glossy with the rubbing of many customers.
On the table was a pile of trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled
together. They looked new and living. Paul sniffed the odour of new
wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. B