“Thank you so much.  May I mention your name?”

“If you decide to go there, certainly.”

Mavis thanked him and was gone.  She, at once, made for Dawes’.  The girl knew exactly where it was, its name and situation being a household word to women living in London.  Arrived there, she glanced appealingly at the splendid plate-glass windows, as if beseeching them to mitigate some of their aloofness.  She approached one of the glass doors, which was opened by a gorgeously attired official.  When inside, she looked about her curiously, fearfully.  She was in a long room, down either side of which ran a counter, behind which were stationed young women, who bore themselves with a self-conscious, would-be queenly mien.  The space between the counters, to which the public was admitted, was promenaded by frock-coated men, who piloted inexperienced customers to where they might satisfy their respective wants.  One of these shop-walkers approached Mavis.

“Where can I direct you, madam?”

“I want to see Mr Orgles.”

The man looked at her attentively.

“I’ve come from Mr Evans at Poole and Palfrey’s,” murmured Mavis.

The man left her and spoke to one of the regal young women, who stood behind the counter as if trying to make believe that they were there, not from necessity, but from choice.

The man returned to Mavis and told her to wait.  As she stood in the shop, she saw the young woman whom the man had spoken to mouth something in a speaking tube; this person then whispered to two or three other girls who stood behind the counter, causing them to stare continuously at Mavis.  Presently, the speaking tube whistled, when a message came to say that if Miss Keeves would walk upstairs, Mr Orgles would see her.  The shop-walker walked before Mavis to show her the way.  She could not help noticing that the man’s demeanour had changed:  he had approached her, when he first saw her, with the servility peculiar to his occupation; now, having fathomed her errand, he marched before her with elbows stuck out and head erect, as if to convey what an important personage he was.

She was shown into a plainly furnished office, where she was told to wait.  She wondered if, at last, she would have any luck.  She sat there for about ten minutes, when a man came into the room, shutting the door after him.  He was about sixty-five, and walked with a stoop.  His face reminded Mavis of a camel.  He had large bulging eyes, which seemed to gaze at objects sideways.  He looked like the deacon at a house of dissenting worship, which, indeed, he was.  Mavis rightly concluded this person to be Mr Orgles.

“You wished to see me?” he asked.

“Mr Orgles?”

“That’s my name.”

Mavis explained why she had called:  it was as much as she could do to hide her anxiety.  Mr Orgles not making any reply, she went on speaking, saying how she would do her utmost to give satisfaction in the event of her being engaged.