There is a certain department store on the slope of Murray Hill which
has in it a gallery much frequented by ladies for meeting their
friends. Once in a while we have an appointment there to wait for
Titania, and always we find it an entertaining corner of the world.
Along one side of the gallery is a long line of telephone booths, and
we know nothing more amusing than to stroll past the glass doors, with
apparently abstracted and meditative air, to watch the faces of the
fair captives within. How admirable a contrivance is the feminine face
for reflecting the emotions! Some you will see talking animatedly,
with bright colour, sparkling eyes, every appearance of mirth and
merry cheer. Others are waiting, all anguish and grievance, for some
dilatory connection; their small brows heavy with perplexity. Often
it seems to be necessary, for some mysterious sharing of secrets or
shopping plans, for two ladies to occupy the same booth at a time; how
they do it we cannot guess; but they sit demurely squeezed upon one
another and their faces appear side by side, both apparently talking at
once into the receiver. Through the glass pane this offers a curious
sight, apparently a lady with two heads; muffled by the barrier, shrill
squeaks and conjectures are dimly heard. There are ladies, generous
of physique, who find it hard enough to press in singly; when they
seek to arise they are held tightly by the cage and a great wrench and
backing outward are necessary. Particularly on a Saturday, shortly
before matinée time, are these lively creatures full of animation and
derring-do. A gay and vivid panorama of human frailty, only surpassed
in quaint absurdity by a similar row of men in the phone booths of a
large cigar store.
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