THE MILD AND BASHFUL ENTERPRISE of Mallingham is made to look ridiculous when contrasted with the unblushing business energy of Burford, that bustling town of twenty thousand inhabitants at the farther end of Nethershire. Burford lends itself as an awful example of what can be accomplished by that dynamic element known as “push.” It was born picturesque, but has since become prosperous. Its Corporation has long ago done away with all those features of interest to antiquarians which are ineradicable in Mallington, however earnestly the ambitious Council of the latter may labour for their annihilation; so although strangers knowing something of the early history of Burford, come to it expecting to find it the “dear old quaint place” of the girl with the camera, they bicycle away before accepting the hospitality offered by the bill of fare displayed in the broad windows of the double-fronted modern restaurant lately set up by Messrs. Caterham & Co., of London, where the old conduit house, mentioned in the guide-books, stood for centuries, in the High Street. The Corporation are, it is rumoured, meditating the advisability of altering the name of the High Street into the King's Parade. The sooner they make a move in this direction the better it will be for all concerned; for undoubtedly, as the Mayor recently pointed out, the town has passed out of the category of towns with a High Street, and may claim to be admitted into the select circle of those with their Royal Avenues and Princes' Promenades.

So why not make a bold step forward with King's Parade?

Why not indeed?

The invasion of Burford by Messrs. Caterham, with their score of little marble tables and a choice of four dishes for luncheon, was equivalent to putting the seal of modernity upon the old High Street; but its claim to compete in its extent of plate-glass frontage with the most advanced centres of business enterprise, was long ago proved by the establishment of Messrs. Shenstone's fine “drapery emporium” (vide advertisements) on the site of the old Castlegate Inn. It is said that even in the difficult matter of supplying sables to suit all classes of customers this house can hold its own with any in the trade.

A customer enters with an inquiry for a set of sables.

“Forward furs,” the shopwalker commands—he actually is a full corporal in the Territorials—and the lady finds herself confronted at the counter by a young man with a Bond Street frock-coat and a Regent Street smile, who says—

“Sables, madam? Certainly.”

He leaves her for a few moments and returns with an armful of furs, which he displays, laying each piece over his arm and smoothing it down as if it were—well, a sort of cat.

“Price, madam?” He refers to a ticket. “Two hundred guineas, madam—all Russian. Something not quite so expensive? Certainly, madam.” Once again he goes away and returns with another armful. “These are quite superior furs, madam. Real sable? Certainly, madam, real Musquash sable. Sixty-five pounds. Something cheaper, madam? Certainly. I have a very nice line of inexpensive sables that I think you will like.” He beckons to a young lady farther up the counter, and she brings him a bundle of tawny skins, which he displays as before. “A very nice line, madam—very chaste and showy. Real sable? Oh, certainly—real electric sable, every piece. Price, madam? Nine guineas, including muff. Something cheaper still? Certainly, madam.” He climbs up a small and handy ladder and lifts down a large pasteboard box full of furs. “These, madam—very tasteful—large amount of wear—sell a great number of these. Real sable? Certainly, madam, real rabbit sable, thirty-nine and eleven. Something rather less? Certainly, madam.” He pulls down another box, takes off the lid, and exposes skins. “Nice lot these, madam, very highly thought of—largely worn in London this season. Real sable, madam? Certainly, madam—real ox-tail sable, ten and six the set. Shall we send them? Thank you. What name, please? Johnston—with the t? Thank you. And the next article, madam? Oh yes, this afternoon for certain.”

That is the sort of business house you find in the High Street, Burford, in these days; so that there can hardly be a doubt that it is time the thoroughfare changed its name to King's Parade. If people want genuine ox-tail sables they will go to a King's Parade for it much more readily than they would to a High Street. But there is a deeper depth in sables that a customer can only reach in a Royal Avenue; this is the genuine charwoman's sable at three and eleven, muff included. Messrs. Shenstone & Co. are, however, select and conscientious; they will not sell you as the real article anything that will not bear the closest scrutiny, and their ox-tail sable marks the limit to which they will go. It may be foolish in these go-ahead days to have any scruples, but Messrs. Shenstone are ready to submit to any reproach rather than to give a customer, however humble, a misleading description of any article.