Every show-window where
I halted was jammed to the gunwales with thick, fuzzy, woolen
articles and inflammatory plaid waistcoats, and articles in crash
for tropical wear--even through the glass you could note each
individual crash with distinctness. The London shopkeeper adheres
steadfastly to this arrangement. Into his window he puts everything
he has in his shop except the customer. The customer is in the
rear, with all avenues of escape expertly fenced off from him by
the proprietor and the clerks; but the stock itself is in the
show-window.
There are just two department stores in London where, according
to the American viewpoint, the windows are attractively dressed.
One of these stores is owned by an American, and the other, I
believe, is managed by an American. In Paris there are many shops
that are veritable jewel-boxes for beauty and taste; but these are
the small specialty shops, very expensive and highly perfumed.
The Paris department stores are worse jumbles even than the English
department stores. When there is a special sale under way the
bargain counters are rigged up on the sidewalks. There, in the
open air, buyer and seller will chaffer and bicker, and wrangle
and quarrel, and kiss and make up again--for all the world to see.
One of the free sights of Paris is a frugal Frenchman, with his
face extensively haired over, pawing like a Skye terrier through a
heap of marked-down lingerie; picking out things for the female
members of his household to wear--now testing some material with
his tongue; now holding a most personal article up in the sunlight
to examine the fabric--while the wife stands humbly, dumbly by,
waiting for him to complete his selections.
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