When the young man stepped through the doorway he was at once encompassed with the strangest blend of odours; every article in the shop—­groceries of all kinds, pastry, cooked meat, bloaters, newspapers, petty haberdashery, firewood, fruit, soap—­seemed to exhale its essence distressfully under the heat; impossible that anything sold here should preserve its native savour.  The air swarmed with flies, spite of the dread example of thousands that lay extinct on sheets of smeared newspaper.  On the counter, among other things, was a perspiring yellow mass, retailed under the name of butter; its destiny hovered between avoirdupois and the measure of capacity.  A literature of advertisements hung around; ginger-beer, blacking, blue, &c., with a certain ‘Samaritan salve,’ proclaimed themselves in many-coloured letters.  One descried, too, a scrubby but significant little card, which bore the address of a loan office.

The music issued from the parlour behind the shop; it ceased as Ackroyd approached the counter, and at the sound of his footsteps appeared Mrs. Bower.  She was a stout woman of middle age, red of face, much given to laughter, wholesomely vulgar.  At four o’clock every afternoon she laid aside her sober garments of the working day and came forth in an evening costume which was the admiration and envy of Paradise Street.  Popular from a certain wordy good-humour which she always had at command, she derived from this evening garb a social superiority which friends and neighbours, whether they would or no were constrained to recognise.  She was deemed a well-to-do woman, and as such—­Paradise Street held it axiomatic—­ might reasonably adorn herself for the respect of those to whom she sold miscellaneous pennyworths.  She did not depend upon the business.  Her husband, as we already know, was a foreman at Egremont & Pollard’s oilcloth manufactory; they were known to have money laid by.  You saw in her face that life had been smooth with her from the beginning.  She wore a purple dress with a yellow fichu, in which was fixed a large silver brooch; on her head was a small lace cap.  Her hands were enormous, and very red.  As she came into the shop, she mopped her forehead with a handkerchief; perspiration streamed from every pore.

‘What a man you are for keepin’ yourself cool, Mr. Hackroyd!’ she exclaimed; ‘it’s like a breath o’ fresh air to look at you, I’m sure.  If this kind o’ weather goes on there won’t be much left o’ me.  I’m a-goin’ like the butter.’

‘It’s warmish, that’s true,’ said Luke, when she had finished her laugh.  ’I heard Mr. Boddy playing in there, and I’ve got a message for him.’

‘Come in and sit down.  He’s just practisin’ a new piece for his club to-night.’

Ackroyd advanced into the parlour.  The table was spread for tea, and at the tray sat Mrs. Bower’s daughter, Mary.  She was a girl of nineteen, sparely made, and rather plain-featured, yet with a thoughtful, interesting face.  Her smile was brief, and always passed into an expression of melancholy, which in its turn did not last long; for the most part she seemed occupied with thoughts which lay on the borderland between reflection and anxiety.  Her dress was remarkably plain, contrasting with her mother’s, and her hair was arranged in the simplest way.