on, upon each succeeding visit he sought
out us to attend to his wishes. The position of retail salesman "on
the floor" is one completely exposed to every human attitude and
humour. Against arrogance, against contempt of himself as a shop
person, a species of "counter-jumper," against irascibility, against
bigoted ignorance, against an indissoluble assumption, perhaps logical,
that he is of inferior mentality, this factotum has no defence. His
very business is to meet all with amenity. It is his daily portion,
included in the material with which he works.

It (he finds) injures him not, essentially; it ceases to particularly
affect him, beyond his inward appraisement of the character before him.
Toward him one acts simply in accordance with the instincts of one's
nature. His status counsels no constraint, invites no display, has no
property of stimulation. Thus the view of a famous man's character
from the position of retail clerk is valuable. Mr. James's manner with
Mr. Brownell would hardly be the same as toward us. But it was,
exactly. There was present in his mind at the moment, was quite
apparent, absolutely no consciousness of any distance of mind, or
position, between him and us. He sought conversation (any suggestion
of so equalising a thing as conversation with a clerk is not uncommonly
repressed by the important as preposterous). In his own talk with us,
he seemed to us to be a man consciously striving with the material of
words and sentences to express his thought as well as he could.

He was very earnest. He looked up at us constantly (we are a little
tall) with fixed concentration of gaze, and moved his hand to and fro
as though seeking to balance his ideas. He asked questions with
deference. Among other things, he desired very much to know what per
cent. of the novels on the fiction table was the product of writers in
England. "I live in England myself," he said, very simply, "and I am
curious to know this." He expressed a little impatience at the
measureless flood of mediocre fiction, making a fluttering gesture
conveying a sense of impotence to give it attention. He barely glanced
at the pile of his own book, and did not mention it. He did not seem
at first (though we believe later he changed this opinion) to think
highly of Arnold Bennett (this was at the first bloom of Mr. Bennett's
vogue here), nor to have read him. "Oh, yes, yes; he is an English
journalist," in a tone as though,