Passing down a narrow aisle between the alcoves the visitor
noticed that some of the compartments were wholly in darkness;
in others where lamps were glowing he could see a table and chairs.
In one corner, under a sign lettered ESSAYS, an elderly gentleman
was reading, with a face of fanatical ecstasy illumined by the sharp
glare of electricity; but there was no wreath of smoke about him so
the newcomer concluded he was not the proprietor.

As the young man approached the back of the shop the general effect
became more and more fantastic. On some skylight far overhead
he could hear the rain drumming; but otherwise the place was
completely silent, peopled only (so it seemed) by the gurgitating
whorls of smoke and the bright profile of the essay reader.
It seemed like a secret fane, some shrine of curious rites,
and the young man's throat was tightened by a stricture which was
half agitation and half tobacco. Towering above him into the gloom
were shelves and shelves of books, darkling toward the roof.
He saw a table with a cylinder of brown paper and twine,
evidently where purchases might be wrapped; but there was no sign
of an attendant.

"This place may indeed be haunted," he thought, "perhaps by
the delighted soul of Sir Walter Raleigh, patron of the weed,
but seemingly not by the proprietors."

His eyes, searching the blue and vaporous vistas of the shop, were caught
by a circle of brightness that shone with a curious egg-like lustre.
It was round and white, gleaming in the sheen of a hanging light,
a bright island in a surf of tobacco smoke. He came more close,
and found it was a bald head.