Godfrey and Rafael passed from the street into the outer shop of the old mansion¹ in Holywell Street. It was a masquerade warehouse² to all appearance. A dark-eyed damsel of the nation was standing³ at the dark and grimy counter, strewed⁴ with old feathers, old yellow hoots⁵, old stage mantles⁶, painted masks, blind and yet gazing at you with a look of sad death-like intelligence from the vacancy⁷ behind their sockets⁸.

A medical student was trying one of the doublets of orange-tawny and silver, slashed⁹ with dirty light blue. He was going to a masquerade that night. He thought Polly Pattens would admire him in the dress — Polly Pattens, the fairest of maids-of-all-work — the Borough¹⁰ Venus, adored by half the youth of Guy’s.

“You look like a prince in it, Mr. Lint¹¹,” pretty Rachel said, coaxing¹² him with her beady black eyes.

“It IS the cheese,” replied Mr. Lint; “it ain’t the dress that don’t suit, my rose of Sharon; it’s the FIGURE. Hullo, Rafael, is that you, my lad of sealing-wax? Come and intercede¹³ for me with this wild gazelle; she says I can’t have it under fifteen bob for the night. And it’s too much: cuss me if it’s not too much, unless you’ll take my little bill at two months, Rafael.”

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