working order, Hugo beheld it, and said emphatically, 'This will do.'

All London stood amazed, but not at the austere beauty of the whole, for
only a few connoisseurs could appreciate that. What amazed London was
the fabulous richness, the absurd spaciousness, the extravagant
perfection of every part of the immense organism.

You could stroll across twenty feet of private tessellated pavement,
enter jewelled portals with the assistance of jewelled commissionaires,
traverse furlong after furlong of vistas where nought but man was vile,
sojourn by the way in the concert-hall, the reading-room, or the
picture-gallery, smoke a cigarette in the court of fountains, write a
letter in the lounge, and finally ask to be directed to the stationery
department, where seated on a specially designed chair and surrounded by
the most precious manifestations of applied art, you could select a
threepenny box of J pens, and have it sent home in a pair-horse van.

The unobservant visitor wondered how Hugo made it pay. The observant
visitor did not fail to note that there were more than a hundred
cash-desks in the place, and that all the cashiers had the air of being
overworked. Once the entire army of cashiers, driven to defensive
action, had combined in order to demand from Hugo, not only higher pay,
but an increase in their numbers. Hugo had immediately consented,
expressing regret that their desperate plight had escaped his attention.

The registered telegraphic address of the establishment was 'Complete,
London.'

This address indicated the ideal which Hugo had turned into a reality.
His imperial palace was far more than a universal bazaar. He boasted