TEXT C
A bus took him to the West End, where, among the crazy coloured fountains of illumination, shattering the blue dusk with green and crimson fire, he found the café of his choice, a tea-shop that had gone mad and turned. Bbylonian, a while palace with ten thousand lights. It towered above the other building like a citadel, which indeed it was, the outpost of a new age, perhaps a new civilization, perhaps a new barbarism; and behind the thin marble front were concrete and steel, just as behind the careless profusion of luxury were millions of pence, balanced to the last halfpenny. Somewhere in the background, hidden away, behind the ten thousand llights and acres of white napery and bewildering glittering rows of teapots, behind the thousand waitresses and cash-box girls and black-coated floor managers and temperamental long-haired violinists, behind the mounds of cauldrons of stewed steak, the vanloads of ices, were a few men who went to work juggling with fractions of a farming, who knew how many units of electricity it took to finish a steak-and-kidney pudding and how many minutes and seconds a waitress( five feet four in height and in average health) would need to carry a tray of given weight from the kitchen life to the table in the far corner. In short, there was a warm, sensuous, vulgar life flowering in the upper storeys, and a cold science working in the basement. Such as the gigantic tea-shop into which Turgis marched, in search not of mere refreshment but of all the enchantment of unfamiliar luxury. Perhaps he knew in his heart that men have conquered half the known world, looted whole kingdoms, and never arrived in such luxury. The place was built for him.
It was built for a great many other people too, and, as usual, they were al there. It seemed with humanity. The marble entrance hall, piled dizzily with bonbons and cakes, was as crowded and bustling 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 the lifts, Turgis, once more excited by the sight, sound, and smell of it all, climbed the wide staircase until he reached his favourite floor, whre an orchestra, led by a young Jewish violinist with wandering lustrous eyes and a passion for tremolo effects, acted as a magnet to a thousand girls, scented air, 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 far more distinguished than he could ever hope to be, who murmured deferentially: “ For one, sir This way, please,” Shyly, yet proudly, Turgis followed him.