Three-quarters of an hour later Henry might have been seen—in fact, was seen by a number of disinterested¹ wayfarers—to enter a magnificent new block of offices and flats in Charing² Cross Road. Love in Babylon was firmly gripped under his right arm. Partly this strange burden and partly the brilliant aspect of the building made him feel self-conscious and humble⁴ and rather unlike his usual calm self. For, although Henry was accustomed to offices, he was not accustomed to magnificent offices. There are offices in Lincoln's Inn Fields, offices of extreme wealth, which, were they common lodging-houses, would be instantly condemned⁵ by the County Council. Powells was such a one—and Sir George had a reputed income of twenty thousand a year. At Powells the old Dickensian tradition was kept vigorously alive by every possible means. Dirt and gloom were omnipresent. Cleanliness and ample daylight would have been deemed unbusinesslike, as revolutionary and dangerous as a typewriter. One day, in winter, Sir George had taken cold, and he had attributed his misfortune, in language which he immediately regretted, to the fact that 'that d——d woman had cleaned the windows'—probably with a damp cloth. 'That d——d woman' was the caretaker, a grey-haired person usually dressed in sackcloth, who washed herself, incidentally, while washing the stairs. At Powells, nothing but the stairs was ever put to the indignity⁶ of a bath.  
That Henry should be somewhat diffident about invading Kenilworth Mansions⁷ was therefore not surprising. He climbed three granite⁸ steps, passed through a pair of swinging doors, traversed eight feet of tesselated pavement, climbed three more granite steps, passed through another pair of swinging doors, and discovered himself in a spacious⁹ marble hall, with a lift-cabinet resembling a confessional, and broad stairs behind curving up to Paradise. On either side of him, in place of priceless works by old masters, were great tablets inscribed¹⁰ with many names in gold characters. He scanned these tablets timidly, and at length found what he wanted, 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent,' under the heading 'Third Floor.' At the same moment a flunkey in chocolate and cream approached him.
 
'Mr. Snyder?' asked Henry.
 
'Third-floor, left,' pronounced the flunkey, thus giving the tablets the force of his authority.
 
As Henry was wafted¹¹ aloft in the elevator, with the beautiful and innocuous flunkey as travelling companion, he could not help contrasting that official with the terrible Powellian caretaker who haunted the Powellian stairs.
 
On the third-floor, which seemed to be quite a world by itself, an arrow with the legend 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent,' directed his mazed¹² feet along a corridor to a corner where another arrow with the legend 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent,' pointed¹³ along another corridor. And as he progressed, the merry din³ of typewriters grew louder and louder. At length he stood in front of a glassy door, and on the face of the door, in a graceful¹⁴ curve, was painted the legend, 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent.' Shadows of vague moving forms could be discerned on the opalescent¹⁵ glass, and the chatter¹⁶ of typewriters was almost disconcerting.
 
Henry paused.
 
That morning Mr. Mark Snyder had been to Powells on the business of one of his clients, a historian of the Middle Ages, and in the absence of Sir George had had a little talk with Henry. And Henry had learnt for the first time what a literary agent was, and, struck by the man's astuteness¹⁷ and geniality¹⁸, had mentioned the matter of Love in Babylon. Mr. Snyder had kindly¹⁹ promised to look into the matter of Love in Babylon himself if Henry could call on him instantly with the manuscript. The reason for haste was that on the morrow Mr. Snyder was leaving England for New York on a professional tour of the leading literary centres of the United States. Hence Henry's telegram to Dawes Road.
 
Standing²⁰ there in front of Mr. Snyder's door, Henry wondered whether, after all, he was not making a fool of himself. But he entered.
 
Two smart women in tight and elegant bodices, with fluffy²¹ bows at the backs of their necks, looked up from two typewriters, and the one with golden hair rose smiling and suave²².
 
'Well, you seem a fairly nice sort of boy—I shall be kind to you,' her eyes appeared to say. Her voice, however, said nothing except, 'Will you take a seat a moment?' and not even that until Henry had asked if Mr. Snyder was in.
 
The prospective²³ client examined the room. It had a carpet, and lovely almanacs on the walls, and in one corner, on a Japanese table, was a tea-service in blue and white. Tables more massive bore enormous piles of all shapes and sizes of manuscripts, scores and hundreds or unprinted literary works, and they all carried labels, 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent.' Love in Babylon shrank so small that Henry could scarcely detect its presence under his arm.
 
Then Goldenhair, who had vanished, came back, and, with the most enchanting²⁴ smile that Henry had ever seen on the face of a pretty woman, lured²⁵ him by delicious gestures into Mr. Mark Snyder's private office.
 
'Well,' exclaimed Mr. Snyder, full of good-humour, 'here we are again.' He was a fair, handsome man of about forty, and he sat at a broad table playing with a revolver. 'What do............