Somewhere between Madison and Fifth Avenues, close to the hubbub of Forty-second Street--the thoroughfare which is like a river flowing in many directions at the same time--you will find the store of Afghian, Mestre Afghian, the rug dealer and Oriental art collector. Afghian would surely take offense at having his place called a "store," the chief objection to this word being his aversion to Occidental business methods--the system by which things are appraised in their dollar-and-cents value. Afghian also is a business man. But to him rugs and topazes are rugs and topazes first, and do not represent so many gold pieces. He thinks and feels in terms of rugs, as did his ancestors hundreds of years ago on the plains of Afghanistan and Turkestan when they exchanged the product of their labor and love for the pearls brought to them by the poachers of Bahrein. In the dimly lit square room hang beautiful examples of the work of the Tadjiks and Chiites, some in riotous colors suggestive and voluptuous, and others as though woven by hands of saints who had banished all earthly joy from their hearts. And for every rug Afghian has a story, a story which he reads out of the web and colors, deducing the strangest possible details from the feel of the wool in a certain spot, and embroidering upon it till one thinks of the fabric as a living thing, freighted with a thousand passions and burdened with hatreds and prejudices as we all are--each one of us a stitch in the web of the universe woven by the great master on the loom of eternity. On an afternoon I found Afghian seated in a corner and fingering some topazes. He was not alone. A portly man and a young lady were looking at the rugs displayed on the four walls. I heard the two Americans speak about room measurements and color harmony with the furniture they possessed. They looked like sure buyers, and their appearance left no doubt of their ability to pay for what they wanted. As I looked at them I remembered the powerful car waiting outside--the liveried chauffeur and the footman in their gold bespangled coats fairly shouting the riches of their master. Yet why was Afghian so cold? Why was he not at the elbows of his rich customers, persuading them, telling them stories, explaining values, demonstrating, cajoling? He sat in a corner polishing some green-blue stones on the sleeves of his coat--his small eyes ablaze, the thin dry lips drawn inside, coiling himself like a serpent before the spring. A few minutes after I had come in, the gentleman pointed with his cane to a large rug on the wall and said: "What's the price of this one?" "It's sold," answered Afghian, without lifting his eyes. And he continued to polish the topazes on his sleeve. "And what's the price of this one?" the lady asked, pointing her white-gloved hand to a rug that I hoped to possess some day. "Sold, also--belongs to this gentleman," he answered, pointing at me.