In the choice of business premises Ben showed not a little sagacity. I
know, for I was with her.
She began by consulting a firm of house-agents, which, like so many
of those necessary but unsatisfactory organizations, appeared to
consist of twins--Messrs. Charger & Charger. What the evolution of a
house-agent is, no one has ever discovered, but an addiction neither
to industry nor to strict veracity seems to be an essential to their
perfected state. All house-agents have youth and eloquence and make an
attempt at social ease. The effrontery that accompanies the sale of
motor-cars is never quite theirs: they do not actually puff tobacco
smoke at their customers while leaning against the wall with their
hands in their pockets, but they probably would like to.
Whether we saw either of the principals--either Charger or Charger--we
never knew; but the place was full of glib young men who employed the
first-person-singular in their conversations, each of whom in turn
might have been Charger or Charger, but all of whom probably were not.
It was by disregarding their suggestions that Ben gradually arrived at
a decision.
"I am thinking," she said, "of opening an office where advice can be
sought on all kinds of domestic problems, and I want it to be in a
wealthy residential district but not in a main street."
"Not in Piccadilly?" the young man asked.
"No, _not_ in a main street," said Ben.
"I have a very desirable upper part in Lower Regent Street," he said.
"_Not_ in a main street," Ben replied.
The young man turned over the pages of a register.
"How would you like Long Acre?" he inquired.
"Would you call that a wealthy residential district?" Ben replied.
"What about the Strand?" he asked.
"_Not_ in a main street," said Ben. "Besides, surely it must be in a
part where women shop? The Strand is mostly full of men and tourists,
isn't it? I know I personally have never been there except to a
restaurant or a theatre."
"That's true," said the young man. "A shopping quarter. I understand.
Somewhere off Oxford Street, you mean."
"Well, what have you got there?" Ben asked.
"I'm afraid I haven't anything," he said. "Or South Audley Street?"
"Yes," said Ben, "that's much better."
He looked through his register again.
"No," he said, "there's nothing there. But"--brightly--"what about the
upper part of a garage near the Imperial Institute? I can recommend
that most highly."
It was then that we came out.
Taking our fate into our own hands, we spent the afternoon in walking
in likely places, and at last came upon an old book shop in Motcombe
Street, which is near Knightsbridge and between the distinguished and
far from poverty-stricken squares of Eaton and of Lowndes. At the side
of the shop was a signboard in white and light green on which were the
agreeable words:--
THE
BOOKLOVERS'
REST
In the window were rows on rows of volumes, old and less old, some
opened at the title page and others at delectable coloured plates.
The shop was evidently new, judging by the paint; and from a window
above it a notice emerged stating that the upper part was to let and
was suitable for offices.
As we approached, a small and intensely waggish black spaniel dashed
out of the door with all the excitement that such dogs manifest when
their masters are coming too, and a moment later a fresh-looking young
man in a tweed suit, without a hat, sauntered from the shop, crossed
the road and surveyed the premises with a pleased proprietary eye.
After a brief space he called "Patrick!" and there came to the doorway
another young man, who had a more studious air and, we noticed, limped.
The first young man said nothing but slightly extending both hands,
elevated his thumbs to a vertical position.
"Good," said the lame one, and then all three retired to the recesses
of the shop.
Meanwhile Ben's mind was working very quickly. Motcombe Street, she
remarked, was only a few yards from the two great Knightsbridge
drapers, and Sloane Street with all its millinery and boots and
dressmakers was close by. If two young men thought it a good enough
spot to establish themselves as second-hand book sellers, might it not
be equally or even more suitable for our purposes? And especially so if
she could induce a Knightsbridge or Sloane Street tradesman, or both,
to allow her to put up a finger-board. At any rate, the rooms must be
looked at.
In the course of the conversation that followed, Ben said that the
only real drawback was that there was no private door. The upper part
could be reached only through the shop. But neither Mr. Harford, the
young man with the dog (whose name appeared to be "Soul"), nor Mr.
St. Quentin, the young man with the limp, thought this a very serious
objection.
"If _you_ don't mind," said Mr. Harford, "we shan't. You will probably
have more customers than we, and we shall try and bag some of them."
"Yes," quoted Mr. St. Quentin, or Patrick, "'and those that came to
scoff remained to pray.' In other words, if they can't get a governess
or a chauffeur from you, they may stop on the way down to buy a cookery
book from us."
"That's too one-sided," said Ben. "Equally why shouldn't people who
can't find anything they want on your shelves, be sent upstairs to see
what I can do for them?"
"Of course," said Mr. Harford. "Only yesterday, for example, we had an
old boy from America. Americans, it seems, want either first editions
of Conrad and Masefield, or something to do with Dr. Johnson. This was
a Johnsonian, but he was also in need of a service flat. Now if you
had been here I should have pushed him up and you would have fleeced
him."
"Yes," said Mr. St. Quentin, "and then there was that rummy old bird
this morning. She wanted a novel. Anything to pass the time, she said.
But when she came to look round, there was nothing that she hadn't read
or that she wanted to read. Dickens was too vulgar and Thackeray was
too cynical. Meredith was too difficult and Hardy too sad. Trollope
was too trivial and George Eliot too bracing. Wells was too clever and
Bennett too detailed. Galsworthy was too long and Kipling too short.
And so on. She ended by offering me a fiver for Jack's spaniel, which
she called a 'doggy.' After I had repulsed the offer she asked me if
I could tell her the best play that had a matinée to-day. The world's
full of these drifters. Now if you had been here, I should have steered
her to you."
"To waste my time?" Ben asked.
"Not a bit of it. She was rolling in money; all she needed was a
directing mind, such as I am sure yours is. What she wanted was to get
through the day, and you would have helped her, and business would
result. As a matter of fact, she did buy something; she bought 'Tom
Brown's School Days,' for the curious reason, into which I was far too
wily to enquire further, that her dear father was at Winchester."
"One little point, Miss Staveley," said Mr. Harford. "You are setting
up an advice bureau. Won't you give us your opinion on our signboard:
do you think it reads all right?"
"It seems to me most alluring," said Ben; "unless possibly the word
'Rest' might lead people to stay too long."
"Well," said Mr. St. Quentin, "as a matter of fact we had a tussle over
that and Jack won. I was for just 'Bookbuyers' Corner.'"
"Very pretty," said Ben.
"Yes," said Mr. Harford, "but as I very properly and acutely pointed
out, this isn't a corner."
"Still--" Ben began.
"No," said Jack, "a corner's a corner."
"Very well," said his partner, "I give in; but what do you think he
wanted on the sign as we now more or less have it? You won't credit it,
Miss Staveley. Catch hold of something while I tell you."
"Ah, shut up," said Jack.
"He wanted 'Ye' instead of 'The.'"
"No!" said Ben, in horror.
"He did," said Patrick: "he actually and infernally did. Like a tea
shop. He's not altogether a bad-looking man; he would have taken quite
a decent degree but for the War; he has played cricket for his county;
he induced me to become his partner; and yet he wanted 'Ye' instead of
'The.'"
"Can this be true?" Ben asked.
"Well, I stick to it," said Jack. "We are out to make a living and I
know what people are. You might lose a few highbrows by saying 'Ye' but
you'd get a bigger following generally. Still, Patrick here wouldn't
give way. Well," he made an exaggerated gesture of fatalism, "we know
what the reason will be if we're bankrupt, don't we, old Soul?" and he
patted the waggish spaniel.
"And," said the lame one, "I haven't told you the worst. He came down
one day with a design lettered by one of his architect friends,
'YE OLD BOOKE SHOPPE'
in which 'shop' had two _P_'s and an _E_. I haven't fully recovered
yet----"
"It would have meant great business," said Jack, defiantly. "There's a
fascination about that double P and that final E that lots of people
find irresistible. No matter, the die is cast. By the way," he added to
Ben, "I suppose you're calling yourself something?"
"I was thinking of 'The Beck and Call,'" said Ben. "I wanted a
signboard rather like yours."
"Make it 'Ye,'" said Mr. Harford, "and you'll be a millionaire."
"No," said Ben. "I couldn't face my friends. It's bad enough as it is."
"And you'll take our upper part?" Mr. St. Quentin asked.
"I can't say at the moment," said Ben. "I must consider. But if I don't
it will probably only be because I don't think either of you is serious
enough to be my landlord."
But after the lawyers had done their worst with it, Ben signed an
agreement.