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Garvace turned about. "Where's Morrison? Morrison!" Morrison appeared. "Take this window over," said Mr. Garvace pointing his bunch of fingers at Parsons. "Take all this muddle out and dress it properly." Morrison advanced and hesitated. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said Parsons with an immense politeness, "but this is my window." "Take it all out," said Mr. Garvace, turning away. Morrison advanced.
Parsons shut the door with a click that arrested Mr. Garvace. "Come out of that window," he said. "You can't dress it. If you want to play the fool with a window " "This window's All Right," said the genius in window dressing, and there was a little pause. "Open the door and go right in," said Mr. Garvace to Morrison. "You leave that door alone, Morrison," said Parsons.
Garvace, that is to say, the managing director of the Bazaar, walking along the pavement after his manner to assure himself all was well with the establishment he guided. Mr. Garvace was a short stout man, with that air of modest pride that so often goes with corpulence, choleric and decisive in manner, and with hands that looked like bunches of fingers.
He came for his luggage while every one was in the shop, and Garvace would not let him invade the business to say good-by. When Mr. Polly went upstairs for margarine and bread and tea, he slipped on into the dormitory at once to see what was happening further in the Parsons case. But Parsons had vanished. There was no Parsons, no trace of Parsons. His cubicle was swept and garnished.
And when trouble was under discussion he would hold that "little Fluffums" which was the apprentices' name for Mr. Garvace, the senior partner and managing director of the Bazaar would think twice before he got rid of the only man in the place who could make a windowful of Manchester goods tell. Then like many a fellow artist he fell a prey to theories.
Platt revealed himself alone as a tiresome companion, obsessed by romantic ideas about intrigues and vices and "society women." Mr. Polly's depression manifested itself in a general slackness. A certain impatience in the manner of Mr. Garvace presently got upon his nerves. Relations were becoming strained.
"Want to speak to Parsons, Sir," he said to Mr. Mansfield, and deserted his post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments and was in position behind a pile of Bolton sheeting as the governor came in out of the street. "What on Earth do you think you are doing with that window, Parsons?" began Mr. Garvace.
Polly was no longer even trying to hide behind the stack of Bolton sheetings. He realised he was in the presence of forces too stupendous to heed him. "Get him out," said Mr. Garvace. Morrison seemed to be thinking out the ethics of his position. The idea of loyalty to his employer prevailed with him. He laid his hand on the door to open it; Parsons tried to disengage his hand. Mr.
Then he perceived the back of Mr. Garvace and heard his gubernatorial voice crying to no one in particular and everybody in general: "Get him out of the window. He's mad. He's dangerous. Get him out of the window." Then a crimson blanket was for a moment over the head of Mr. Garvace, and his voice, muffled for an instant, broke out into unwonted expletive.
The calling in of a policeman seemed at the moment a pantomime touch. But when it became manifest that Mr. Garvace was in a fury of vindictiveness, the affair took on a different complexion. The way in which the policeman made a note of everything and aspirated nothing impressed the sensitive mind of Polly profoundly.
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