His valued regular clients were pausing in their browsing to look too, nudging each other and whispering. One, an elderly dowager, even held her stick-mounted glasses to her eyes to get a better look, her mouth open in horror. Mr Bryant was a small, plump, soberly dressed man, bald headed, who looked as though he might bounce back up if somebody knocked him over. A tape measure hung about his neck. He eyed them for some time with growing disgust before he spoke. “Excuse me, madam, if you please!” He inclined his head towards the door. “It grieves me to tell you that you have entered the wrong establishment.” Mr Bryant was looking around embarrassed, and at the skinny urchin in particular with some disquiet. He looked as though he might have vitamin deficiency and there was a scratch on his neck where he was bound to have been in a fight. It looked as though the woman had at least endeavoured to bathe him, but still, that odour, characteristic to such people, came through.
