Not long after the close of the Barclay Corbet episode Mr. Harford
waylaid Ben as she passed through the shop.
"I was wondering," he said, "if you would break a chop with Soul and me
this evening? Anywhere you like?"
Ben agreed.
"You shall not be restricted to a chop," said Jack. "Order anything in
season or out of it. I'm rich to-day. I sold a lot of things to another
Yank. They're the book seller's friends! Pat's at Leamington at a book
sale--and I flatter myself he'll be surprised when he comes back."
"There are two ways of being surprised," said Ben, remembering the
incident of the imperfect copy.
"That's a very nasty one," said Mr. Harford. "I credited you with a
shorter memory. But the insult shall be washed out in red wine, or
even, if you say the word, in the yellow and effervescing juices of
Epernay or Rheims. Money is no object. Consider me this evening as a
Quaritch, or even a Rosenbach."
"As a matter of fact," said Ben, "I am in need of a particularly good
dinner, for I have had a trying day. More than one thing has happened
to tire me, and my last client--or would-be client--did more than tire,
she humiliated me."
"'How come?'" asked Jack, who had added that detestable transatlantic
locution to his vocabulary, chiefly with the meritorious if frivolous
purpose of exasperating his partner.
"A very offensive woman called half an hour ago in a motor-car many
yards long--you may have noticed her--to ask me to make arrangements to
take her little Peter out for a walk three times every day while she is
away in Paris," said Ben. "I was very angry and refused."
"Is Peter her little boy?" Jack asked.
"Little boy!" said Ben. "Nothing so unimportant. It's her Pekinese.
When I refused she was furious. She almost accused me of being an
impostor. She said that my business was to solve domestic problems and
that no domestic problem was so acute as the exercising of dogs."
"I wish I'd known," said Mr. Harford. "I saw her go out. If I'd known,
I should have offered her some suitable books: 'Self Help' by Smiles,
or 'It's Never Too Late to Mend,' The--the----"
"Hush!" said Ben. "People who hang out signs can't be choosers."
"Now that we are firmly entrenched in this corner," said Mr. Harford,
after they had finished their soup, "I've got a proposition to lay
before you. I was useful at Bibury, wasn't I?"
"Very," said Ben.
"I helped in bucking the men up and getting things done?"
"Very," said Ben.
"And you don't dislike me?"
"Not particularly," said Ben.
"Well," said Mr. Harford, "what I was thinking is that you and I might
do very well in partnership."
Ben flushed.
"No," he said quickly. "I don't mean what you think I mean--at any rate
not at the moment. But you're not engaged, are you?"
"No," said Ben.
"Thank Heaven!" said Mr. Harford fervently. "But look here, Miss
Staveley, I swear I didn't ask you here to ask you that. It was sprung
on me. I swear I didn't. You believe me, won't you?"
Ben expressed her belief.
"When I said 'partnership,'" he resumed, "I meant business partnership,
although---- When I said partnership I meant business partnership.
Because it seems to me that you and I could do a lot of things together
very profitably. You could get this kind of commission again--old
Corbet is probably singing your praises all over the place to other
impulsive and rich Americans, and that will mean business--and I could
act as your overseer."
"But what about 'The Booklovers' Rest'?" Ben asked.
"Well, Pat would run that; or, if need be, I'd retire. You know, Miss
Staveley, speaking in strict confidence, I don't believe I'm a born
book seller. Honest, I don't."
Ben laughed. "What a wonderful discovery to have made!" she said.
"But," he went on, quite gravely, "I do believe I have a _flair_ for
getting the best out of people under me."
"There won't always be a trout stream," said Ben.
"Now you're making fun of me," he said. "I'm really serious. I feel all
tied up and congested in that shop among mouldy books. It's all right
for Pat--he's a literary cove, and his one desire is to read books and
write them."
"Does he want to write?" Ben asked. "I didn't know that."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Harford; "that's his one ambition. But he can't
afford to. He has to make a living. If he were rich he'd chuck book
selling to-morrow and take to authorship; and he'd be jolly good too.
I'd have my money in the business whatever happened. My mother is
always good for more. But what do you say?"
"Well," said Ben, "I can't say anything very definite. We must wait
till another Mr. Barclay Corbet comes along and then we might make
some arrangement; but I think to talk of--of partnership is rather
premature."
"But you don't hate me?" Mr. Harford asked anxiously.
"I said I didn't," Ben replied.
"I wish you could see my mother," he said. "She's splendid. But she
lives rather a long way off--at Laycock. I suppose you wouldn't come
down for a week-end? It is a delicious place, a little like Bibury, as
a matter of fact. All grey too. Would you?"
"I don't see how I could," said Ben.
"No," said Mr. Harford. "I was afraid not."
He left her at her door.
She gave him her hand.
"Good evening, O'Reilly,
You _are_ looking glum,"
she sang.
"No wonder," he said, and turned away.
Ben stood at the door long enough to see him stoop down and pat Soul's
head.