This was as great a surprise to Sadie Kirk and Earl Usher as to Win herself.  She dropped upon them as if she had fallen out of the sky—­or at least from the top floor.  And nobody knew why:  whether it was a punishment or a reward.  For Toys gave harder work for the hands without a capital H than Blouses and Neckwear, even when Miss Stein was badly “peeved.”  Also, Mr. Tobias, the floorwalker concerned with the toy department was “a spalpeen and a pie-faced mutt from ’way back,” whereas Fred Thorpe was a well-known angel.  Yet, on the other hand, not only were more than half the toy assistants men, but many of the customers also were men.  This made the department more lively to be in than Blouses, and some girls considered Toys next best to Gloves.

It was almost like coming into a strange shop when Win arrived with Sadie before eight o’clock in the morning for her first day in Toyland, as Earl Usher facetiously named it.  The December morning hardly knew yet that it had been born, and though already there was life in the Hands—­fierce, active life—­those pulsing white globes which made artificial sunshine whatever the weather, had not yet begun to glow like illuminated snowballs.  Shadowy men were lifting pale shrouds off the counters.  Voices chattering in the gloom were like voices of monkeys in a dusky jungle—­a jungle quite unlike that fairy place where Peter Rolls had talked of Win to Lady Eileen.  Out of the gloom wondrous things emerged to people, a weird world—­the Hands’ world of toys.

As Win strained her eyes to see through the dusk, forth from its depths loomed uncouth, motionless shapes.  Almost life-size lions and Teddy bears, and huge, grinning baboons as big as five-year-old boys, posed in silent, expressive groups, dangerously near to unprotected dolls’ houses with open fronts—­splendid dolls’ houses, large enough for children to enter, and less important dolls’ houses, only big enough for fairies.  Dolls’ eyes and dolls’ dresses and dolls’ golden curls caught what little light there was and drew attention to themselves.

Some of them stood, three rows deep (the little ones in front, like children watching a show), on shelves.  Others were being fetched out by the chattering shadows, as if they were favourite chorus girls, to display their graces on the counters.  They were placed in chairs, or motor cars of doll land, or seated carefully in baby carriages.  There were walking dolls and talking dolls and dolls who could suck real milk out of real bottles into tin-lined stomachs.  Some exquisitely gowned porcelain Parisiennes, with eyelashes and long hair cut from the heads of penniless children, were almost as big and as aristocratic as their potential millionaire mistresses.  Humbler sisters of middle class combined prettiness with cheapness, and had the satisfaction of showing their own price marks.

These delicate creatures, lovely in pale-tinted robes or forlorn in chemises, were the bright spots in the vast, dark department, shining out through the dusk as stars shine through thin clouds.  As Win became one of the band of shadows, under Sadie’s direction, gradually she grew accustomed to the gloom, and her gaze called many of the strange objects forth into life.