We saw Mr. James after this a number of times. Accompanied again by
Mrs. Wharton, and later in the charge (such was the effect) of another
lady, who, we understood, drives regularly to her social chariot
literary lions. In something like six years' observation of the human
being in a book shop, we have never seen any person so thoroughly in a
book store, a magazine, that is, of books, as Mr. James. One can be,
you know--it is most common, indeed--in a book store and at the same
time not be in a book store--any more than if one were in a hotel
lobby. Mr. James "snooked" around the shop. He ran his nose over the
tables, and inch by inch (he must be very shortsighted) along the
walls, stood on tiptoe and pulled down volumes from high places,
rummaged in dark corners, was apparently oblivious of the presence of
anything but the books. He was not the slightest in a hurry. He would
have been, we felt, content and quite happy, like a child with blocks,
to play this way by himself all day.

Happening, by our close proximity, to turn to us the first time in the
shop that he required attention, upon each succeeding visit he sought
out us to attend to his wishes. The position of retail salesman "on
the floor" is one completely exposed to every human attitude and
humour. Against arrogance, against contempt of himself as a shop
person, a species of "counter-jumper," against irascibility, against
bigoted ignorance, against an indissoluble assumption, perhaps logical,
that he is of inferior mentality, this factotum has no defence. His
very business is to meet all with amenity. It is his daily portion,
included in the material with which he works.

It (he finds) injures him not, essentially; it ceases to particularly
affect him, beyond his inward appraisement of the character before him.