Sophia shared Constance’s corner.  They had hot bricks under their feet, and fine-knitted wraps on their shoulders.  They would have been more comfortable near the stove, but greatness has its penalties.  The weather was exceptionally severe.  The windows were thickly frosted over, so that Mr. Povey’s art in dressing them was quite wasted.  And—­rare phenomenon!—­the doors of the shop were shut.  In the ordinary way they were not merely open, but hidden by a display of ‘cheap lines.’  Mr. Povey, after consulting Mrs. Baines, had decided to close them, foregoing the customary display.  Mr. Povey had also, in order to get a little warmth into his limbs, personally assisted two casual labourers to scrape the thick frozen snow off the pavement; and he wore his kid mittens.  All these things together proved better than the evidence of barometers how the weather nipped.

Mr. Scales came about ten o’clock.  Instead of going to Mr. Povey’s counter, he walked boldly to Constance’s corner, and looked over the boxes, smiling and saluting.  Both the girls candidly delighted in his visit.  Both blushed; both laughed—­without knowing why they laughed.  Mr. Scales said he was just departing and had slipped in for a moment to thank all of them for their kindness of last night—­’or rather this morning.’  The girls laughed again at this witticism.  Nothing could have been more simple than his speech.  Yet it appeared to them magically attractive.  A customer entered, a lady; one of the assistants rose from the neighbourhood of the stove, but the daughters of the house ignored the customer; it was part of the etiquette of the shop that customers, at any rate chance customers, should not exist for the daughters of the house, until an assistant had formally drawn attention to them.  Otherwise every one who wanted a pennyworth of tape would be expecting to be served by Miss Baines, or Miss Sophia, if Miss Sophia were there.  Which would have been ridiculous.

Sophia, glancing sidelong, saw the assistant parleying with the customer; and then the assistant came softly behind the counter and approached the corner.

“Miss Constance, can you spare a minute?” the assistant whispered discreetly.

Constance extinguished her smile for Mr. Scales, and, turning away, lighted an entirely different and inferior smile for the customer.

“Good morning, Miss Baines.  Very cold, isn’t it?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Chatterley.  Yes, it is.  I suppose you’re getting anxious about those—­” Constance stopped.

Sophia was now alone with Mr. Scales, for in order to discuss the unnameable freely with Mrs. Chatterley her sister was edging up the counter.  Sophia had dreamed of a private conversation as something delicious and impossible.  But chance had favoured her.  She was alone with him.  And his neat fair hair and his blue eyes and his delicate mouth were as wonderful to her as ever.  He was gentlemanly to a degree that impressed her more than anything had impressed her in her life.  And all the proud and aristocratic instinct that was at the base of her character sprang up and seized on his gentlemanliness like a famished animal seizing on food.