Pausing on the landing of the fourth floor, she looked about her and was struck by one of those strange sensations that assailed her every now and then: that she wasn’t really here at all but merely dreaming. The vista before her, of the tiers of galleries, the vast ground-floor atrium, and the glass roof high above through which the grey winter sky could be seen put her in mind of an enormous theatre. The cast of thousands, almost all women, promenaded below and around her, circling the counters, viewing the goods, consulting their lists and their friends. On each gallery there were more people, a chorus of women that never stilled. And above her, in the workrooms behind the scenes, there would be more women sewing and altering clothes; there would be clerks making up accounts and delivery men packing items. The range of goods on offer was dazzling, from clothes to carpets, china and toys from all over the world. And the women themselves were from every walk of life—New Yorkers, immigrants, and tourists—each customer treated in the same way whether she was buying a box of pins or furnishing a mansion.

What would Mama think if she could see Margaret now, standing quite alone and unobserved in the midst of all this activity, this world within a world? It was liberating, to blend into the crowd, but at the same time it made her acutely aware that she was not yet one of them. Her days were filled, yet she still felt purposeless. And her feet were aching. Deciding to take a rest in the Ladies’ Parlour which she had heard of but never visited, she made her way to the second floor.

The parlour was set out like a drawing-room, with clusters of chairs and sofas in groups. Most of them were occupied, and when Margaret stood uncertainly in the doorway, she found herself the unwelcome object of attention. New Yorkers did not disguise their interest when it was aroused, and though she knew they were not being rude, the women’s scrutiny scraped away her thin veneer of newly acquired confidence. Fortunately an attendant came to her rescue, ushering her to a free chair with a friendly smile and informing her discreetly that the facilities were in the next room, should she need to use them.

Imagining Mama’s horror at the mention of this very practical amenity made Margaret smile to herself. Across from her, a petite woman in a grey gown smiled back at her, clearly thinking the smile had been intended for her. Embarrassed, Margaret sat down and pretended to consult her shopping list, but the woman was not to be put off, and came over to join her.

“Excuse me. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but are you by any chance Lady Margaret Scott?”