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Three superb glass jars red, green, and blue of the sort that led Rosamund to parting with her shoes blazed in the broad plate-glass windows, and there was a confused smell of orris, Kodak films, vulcanite, tooth-powder, sachets, and almond- cream in the air. Mr. Shaynor fed the dispensary stove, and we sucked cayenne-pepper jujubes and menthol lozenges.
Shaynor and I stamped on the tiled floor behind the counter to keep ourselves warm. The shop, by the light of the many electrics, looked like a Paris-diamond mine, for Mr. Cashell believed in all the ritual of his craft.
There was, after all, a certain stained-glass effect of light on the high bosom of the highly-polished picture which might, by stretch of fancy, suggest, as a vile chromo recalls some incomparable canvas, the line he had spoken. Night, my drink, and solitude were evidently turning Mr. Shaynor into a poet. He sat down again and wrote swiftly on his villainous note-paper, his lips quivering.
I'll stay here and call you when he is." I returned to the shop, and set down my glass on a marble slab with a careless clink. As I did so, Shaynor rose to his feet, his eyes fixed once more on the advertisement, where the young woman bathed in the light from the red jar simpered pinkly over her pearls. His lips moved without cessation. I stepped nearer to listen.
The wind's nearly blowing the fur off him." I saw the belly-fur of the dead beast blown apart in ridges and streaks as the wind caught it, showing bluish skin underneath. "Bitter cold," said Mr. Shaynor, shuddering. "Fancy going out on a night like this! Oh, here's young Mr. Cashell."
"That is the thing that will reveal to us the Powers whatever the Powers may be at work through space a long distance away." Just then Mr. Shaynor returned alone and stood coughing his heart out on the mat. "Serves you right for being such a fool," said young Mr. Cashell, as annoyed as myself at the interruption. "Never mind we've all the night before us to see wonders."
He laughed, "That's all I know about her, and for the life of me I can't see what Shaynor sees in her, or she in him." "Can't you see what he sees in her?" I insisted. "Oh, yes, if that's what you mean. She's a great, big, fat lump of a girl, and so on. I suppose that's why he's so crazy after her. She isn't his sort. Well, it doesn't matter. My uncle says he's bound to die before the year's out.
Remember that in all the millions permitted there are no more than five five little lines of which one can say: "These are the pure Magic. These are the clear Vision. The rest is only poetry." And Mr. Shaynor was playing hot and cold with two of them!
It had never occurred to me, though we had many times discussed reading and prize-competitions as a diversion, that Mr. Shaynor ever read Keats, or could quote him at all appositely.
Shaynor clutched the counter, his handkerchief to his lips. When he brought it away I saw two bright red stains. "I I've got a bit of a rasped throat from smoking cigarettes," he panted. "I think I'll try a cubeb." "Better take some of this. I've been compounding while you've been away." I handed him the brew. "'Twon't make me drunk, will it? I'm almost a teetotaller. My word!
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