The Burlington Arcade, that runs through into Piccadilly, a prettiness of duck—egg paint and glass within and some admirable shop—lettering in gold on black glass surviving to set off gifts to take home, at a price: silver, toys (there’s a specialist in toy soldiers), jewels, glass, coloured waistcoats. The Arcade was the brain—child of Lord George Cavendish, supposedly to prevent the rabble throwing rubbish into his garden from that side. Now two beadles in fancy bowler hats patrol the Arcade for its well—being. (Description from 1931)