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between the Northern and the Southern states, but Eliot does not concern himself with such matters. As a man dedicated to the art of the written word, he believes that he needs to rise above the quotidian, to aspire to something more universal than the time-bound debates of politicians and abolitionists.
    Eliot stares at the fobs on display and fingers the watch chain drooping naked between his buttonhole and his waistcoat pocket. He does not think the book-shaped fob is large enough to hold the inscription that appears on the recently amended sign above his Boston storefront: “Eliot R. Calvert, Purveyor of Fine Books, Maps of Impeccable Quality, Stationery and Writing Supplies, Toy Books, Games, Apparatus for Schools.” There are more items listed on the sign, now, than there were when he first opened his shop a decade earlier. The last part of the list, in particular, depressed him. He hated the fact that he desperately needed the measly profits from primers and pocket maps and copybooks and writing papers and cheap nibs. No one had warned him that a bookseller is little more than a well-read hardware salesman. The sign above Eliot's shop expanded over the years, advertising an increasingly varied stock, but it still does not, of course, mention the other, highly profitable materials that patrons might also acquire by arrangement.
Discretion Assured
. He has considered simplifying the sign, now that he is about to open a new location. “Calvert Books—Boston, Concord, and Beyond.” That would easily fit on the fob. Perhaps just “Calvert Books” would suffice. He pictures the fob hanging from his chain, a counterweight to the gold watch he consults with dramatic flair whenever one of the Washington Street publishers refuses to settle on a reasonable price.
    A small paper tag hangs from the fob in the window. Eliot stoops, but the tag is facedown. Out of the corner of his eye, hesees the proprietor watching him. If he wants to learn the price, he will have to enter the shop. Eliot knows the tricks shopkeepers employ to lure a customer across the threshold, the necessary prelude to getting said customer to draw forth his purse; he has used such ploys many times himself. Eliot straightens and turns to leave, but he catches his reflection in the window, the bright flash of his spectacles, and stops to study it. His face has changed considerably over the years, but the ambition is still there, tucked away behind the well-fed softness of middle age. His once sharp jaw is now buried under an extra layer of flesh, but these changes do not worry him. The engravings of the great tragedians in his bookshop show the same changes. His chest is still sound as an oak barrel, even if his shoulders have begun to slump forward under the invisible burdens that no man can hope to escape. His hair is still thick and dark, and, though his vision is not what it once was, the blue of his eyes suffers none of the cloudiness that afflicts some of his best customers, who no doubt spend too many nights sighing over candlelit pages. Eliot gives his reflection a nod of approval.
Happy is the man
, he thinks,
whose countenance is reflected thus
.
    Eliot turns from the window, scribbling this last thought in his expensive pocket memorandum. If he loiters any longer at the window, he knows he will not be able to resist the temptation to enter the shop and examine the fob more closely, discuss its craftsmanship with the jeweler, feel its heft, dangle it from his own watch chain experimentally. Eliot walks on past other storefronts, taking note of the goods available and the size and lettering of the signs hanging above. He nods politely at a young couple strolling past. He observes the cut of the man's clothes, hopelessly out of fashion, and he can tell that the woman's jacket is too thin for such a chilly day, but with no parade of children behind them the young man walks tall, shoulders back, and the young woman clingsweightlessly to his arm. The