The
long tables that formed a continuous counter around the room were
heaped with diamonds, as neatly stacked as could be managed with such
irregularly shaped things. Crystals have points, yet some diamonds are
apt to roll. It was a businesslike room, and the heaps should have been
businesslike, too, for they were as much merchandise as if they had
been stacks of carbon paper. Through the door leading into a larger
room I saw more tables in rows, where more diamonds were being sorted
by aproned young girls using implements like eyebrow tweezers. All this
should have been prosaic, but diamonds even in commercial bulk are
never prosaic. They were in the rough, they weren't cut, but they
flashed. Johannesburg's sun struck them, through the high windows and
skylights, and they gleamed as if their light came not as an answer,
but from some inside source.
"These
in the lot here," said the man who was showing me around, indicating
the nearest heap, "are what we call close goods, that is, of the best
quality. They're pure; unspotted. As you can see they're graded
according to size as well as color.
