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Updated: May 14, 2025
The day I asked Father for the white frock with roses on it in Selfridge's window, he was so disagreeable that I went to my room and slammed the door and kicked a chair.
When she returned she would have a half-dozen purchases to display, a two-and-six glove bargain from Robinson's, a bit of lace from Selfridge's, a knick-knack from Liberty's "All so MUCH cheaper than you can get 'em in Boston, Hosy." She would have had a glorious time. Matthews, the manager at Camford Street, was out, but Holton, the head clerk I was learning to speak of him as a "clark" was in.
Quite so, quite so, as they say in England. Yes, in the King's Road. For, it is an odd thing, Charles Scribner's Sons are on Fifth Avenue, but Selfridge's is in Oxford Street. Here we meet a man on the street; we kick him into it. And in England it is a very different thing, indeed, whether you meet a lady in the street or on the street.
I feel no security in facts, precedent seems no protection to me. The wisdom you can find in an Encyclopedia, or in Selfridge's Information Bureau, seems to me just a transitory adaptation to quicksand circumstances.
For this is a card-index war, a colossal business of files and classifications and ledgers and statistics and registrations, an undertaking on a scale beside which Harrod's and Whiteley's and Selfridge's and Wanamaker's and the Magazin du Louvre, all rolled into one, would be a fleabite of simplicity.
If, two years ago, when I was sixteen, I hadn't wanted money to buy a white frock with roses on it, which I saw in Selfridge's window, a secret crisis between the United States and Mexico would have been avoided; and the career of a splendid soldier would not have been broken.
I stopped at Selfridge's and laid in a small but nicely chosen supply of shirts, socks, collars, and other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable Homburg hat. The question of a suit of clothes was the only problem that offered any real difficulties.
The teacher may rhapsodize upon the Museum to the limit of her strength, but the girl is thinking of the beautiful fabrics to be seen at the shop, and, especially, of the delicious American ice cream that can be had nowhere else in London. It is rather a poor teacher who cannot lead the girl to the British Museum by way of Selfridge's.
"I'm lately over from England " "You don't need to mention that," broke in the superintendent. "I know London. Have you worked in any of the big department stores there Harrods' or Selfridge's?" "No, none. I was a model for Nadine. I'm quick at doing figures " "The figures that models cut are more to the point, I guess!"
Was he able to learn of your movements that you were to take passage in this ship?" "Why not?" exclaimed the husband; "he must know some of Mrs. Selfridge's friends." "Yes, yes," she said, eagerly; "I have heard him spoken of, several times." "Then it is clear," said the captain.
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