A bus took him to the West End, where,among the crazy coloured fountains of illumination, shattering the blue duskwith green and crimson fire, he found the café of his choice, a tea-shop thathad gone mad and turned. Babylonian, a while palace with ten thousand lights.It towered above the other building like a citadel, which indeed it was, theoutpost of a new age, perhaps a new civilization, perhaps a new barbarism; andbehind the thin marble front were concrete and steel, just as behind thecareless profusion of luxury were millions of pence, balanced to the lasthalfpenny. Somewhere in the background, hidden away, behind the ten thousandlights and acres of white napery and bewildering glittering rows of teapots,behind the thousand waitresses and cash-box girls and black-coated floormanagers and temperamental long-haired violinists, behind the mounds ofcauldrons of stewed steak, the vanloads of ices, were a few men who went towork juggling with fractions of a farming, who knew how many units ofelectricity it took to finish a steak-and-kidney pudding and how many minutesand seconds a waitress( five feet four in height and in average health) wouldneed to carry a tray of given weight from the kitchen life to the table in thefar corner. In short, there was a warm, sensuous, vulgar life flowering in theupper storeys, and a cold science working in the basement. Such as the gigantictea-shop into which Turgis marched, in search not of mere refreshment but ofall the enchantment of unfamiliar luxury. Perhaps he knew in his heart that menhave conquered half the known world, looted whole kingdoms, and never arrivedin such luxury. The place was built for him.

It was built for a great many other peopletoo, and, as usual, they were al there. It seemed with humanity. The marbleentrance hall, piled dizzily with bonbons and cakes, was as crowded andbustling as a railway station. The gloom and grime of the streets, the raw air,all November, were at once left behind, forgotten: the atmosphere inside was golden,tropical, belonging to some high mid-summer of confectionery. Disdaining thelifts, Turgis, once more excited by the sight, sound, and smell of it all,climbed the wide staircase until he reached his favourite floor, where anorchestra, led by a young Jewish violinist with wandering lustrous eyes and apassion for tremolo effects, acted as a magnet to a thousand girls, scentedair, the sensuous clamour of the strings; and, as he stood hesitating a moment,half dazed, there came, bowing, s sleek grave man, older than he was and farmore distinguished than he could ever hope to be, who murmured deferentially: “For one, sir? This way, please,” Shyly, yet proudly, Turgis followed him.