at pains to remodel the house to make it a more suitable shrine
for his trade, which deals entirely in second-hand volumes.
There is no second-hand bookshop in the world more worthy of respect.

It was about six o'clock of a cold November evening, with gusts
of rain splattering upon the pavement, when a young man proceeded
uncertainly along Gissing Street, stopping now and then to look at
shop windows as though doubtful of his way. At the warm and shining
face of a French rotisserie he halted to compare the number enamelled
on the transom with a memorandum in his hand. Then he pushed
on for a few minutes, at last reaching the address he sought.
Over the entrance his eye was caught by the sign:


PARNASSUS AT HOME
R. AND H. MIFFLIN
BOOKLOVERS WELCOME!
THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED


He stumbled down the three steps that led into the dwelling
of the muses, lowered his overcoat collar, and looked about.

It was very different from such bookstores as he had been accustomed
to patronize. Two stories of the old house had been thrown into one:
the lower space was divided into little alcoves; above, a gallery
ran round the wall, which carried books to the ceiling.
The air was heavy with the delightful fragrance of mellowed paper
and leather surcharged with a strong bouquet of tobacco. In front
of him he found a large placard in a frame: