Mr Murray was sorry to find that his two authors could not agree better, but he reflected that it probably could not be helped since both men were famous for quarrelling: Strange with Norrell, and Byron with practically everybody.3

When he had finished reading his letters, Mr Murray thought he would go downstairs to the bookshop. He had printed a very large number of copies of Jonathan Strange’s book and he was anxious to know how it was selling. The shop was kept by a man called Shackleton who looked exactly as you would wish a bookseller to look. He would never have done for any other sort of shopman – certainly not for a haberdasher or milliner who must be smarter than his customers – but for a bookseller he was perfect. He appeared to be of no particular age. He was thin and dusty and spotted finely all over with ink. He had an air of learning tinged with abstraction. His nose was adorned with spectacles; there was a quill pen stuck behind his ear and a half-unravelled wig upon his head.

“Shackleton, how many of Mr Strange’s book have we sold today?” demanded Mr Murray.

“Sixty or seventy copies, I should think.”

“Excellent!” said Mr Murray.

Shackleton frowned and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “Yes, you would think so, would you not?”

“What do you mean?”

Shackleton took the pen from behind his ear “A great many people have come twice and bought a copy both times.”

“Even better! At this rate we shall overtake Lord Byron’s Corsair! At this rate we shall need a second printing by the end of next week!” Then, observing that Shackleton’s frown did not grow any less, Mr Murray added, “Well, what is wrong with that? I dare say they want them as presents for their friends.”

Shackleton shook his head so that all the loose hairs of his wig jiggled about. “It is queer. I have never known it happen before.”

The shop door opened and a young man entered. He was small in stature and slight in build. His features were regular and, truth to tell, he would have been quite handsome had it not been for his rather unfortunate manner. He was one of those people whose ideas are too lively to be confined in their brains and spill out into the world to the consternation of passers-by. He talked to himself and the expression of his face changed constantly. Within the space of a single moment he looked surprized, insulted, resolute and angry – emotions which were presumably the consequences of the energetic conversations he was holding with the ideal people inside his head.