Things on this planet are always happening at the same time; and it must follow (since it is only through meetings that the machinery is assembled which makes the world continue to exist) that, although parallels or divergences are the rule, now and then persons simultaneously start out upon lines of action which in due course arrive at the same point. It is fortunate that those persons are unaware of what the gods are doing with them. Life is not such fun that we can afford to dispense with the unexpected.

It chanced that at the very moment when Ben and I were discussing Mrs. Lintot's scheme at Dartmoor, Mr. John Harford, in the garden of Laycock Manor, was informing his startled mother that he had decided to chuck the law and open a second-hand book shop.

Mrs. Harford was properly horrified. The Harfords so far had been able to avoid trade.

"But this isn't trade," said her son. "This is a lark."

"Do you call it a lark," his mother inquired, "to be covered with dust—for there's nothing so dusty as old books, and very likely to catch horrible diseases—for there are no germ carriers like old books either? And"—she went on, before he could reply—"do you call it a lark to have to bargain with customers, because no one ever gives as much for an old book as it is marked? Even I know that. That's not my notion of a lark, anyway. And you'll have to start early, and leave late, and your health will go, and your nice looks, and all the money spent on your legal career will be wasted, and all the money you are going to put into this absurd business will be wasted too. By the way, where is that money coming from?"

"I was thinking of you, darling," said her son.

"Of me! Is the boy mad?" she inquired of the flowerbeds, the trees and the universe at large. "Do you seriously think that, feeling as I do about this offensive shop, I am going to help you to open it?"

"Yes, darling," said Jack. "And it won't be quite so costly as you think," he added, "because I'm not going into it alone. I've got a partner. Who do you think is joining me?"

"I haven't the faintest notion," Mrs. Harford replied. "But I hope it's an honest man or you'll be robbed. You're as much fitted to run an old book shop alone as I am to—to—well, these are the kind of sentences no one ought ever to begin. One used to say 'to fly' once, but everyone flies now, so there's nothing in it. But you know what I mean. Who is this partner, anyhow?"

"Patrick," said Jack.

"Patrick! Do you mean Mr. St. Quentin?"

"Of course. He's mad about it. And he's got some capital too."

"Well," said Mrs. Harford, "if Mr. St. Quentin thinks it's a good scheme, that's another matter. But only for himself. What is right for him, in his crippled condition, is one thing; what is right for you, is another. Let him run the shop alone, and you go on learning to be a distinguished K.C., there's a dear. Don't be changeable, my boy."

"I'm not really changeable, mother," said Jack. "This is my first departure. And it isn't as if I need slave my way up to success in a profession I don't really care very much for. I've come to the conclusion that I'd far rather be poor in a book shop than rich by pumping up excitement and rage in the interests of clients you can't bear the sight of and probably don't believe in. And I'm fond of books, and, as you know, I adore old Pat and in a way I feel pledged to him too after all our times together in the War; and with his one leg what else could he do? I was with him when he lost it and I feel bound to help."

"I can't agree," said Mrs. Harford, "that for a one-legged man second-hand book selling is the only possible employment, but I'll go so far as to say that I like you to feel like that about him. All the same, I don't see why he should need a partner. An assistant, yes, but why my son as a partner? And also, can there be enough profit in a second-hand book shop to keep two young men?"

"We shan't roll, of course," said Jack, "but we oughtn't to starve, and there's always the chance of picking up a first folio for a few shillings and selling it at its real value. So you will put up a little money, darling, won't you? You wouldn't like me to touch my capital, I know."

"No," said his mother. "I should hate it. All I can say now is that if Mr. Tredegar approves I'll see what I can do. And of course he must be consulted as to the premises you take, the lease, and all that kind of thing. You promise that?"

"Well, darling," said Jack, "I would promise it if I could. But I can't, because, you see, we've burnt our boats. We took the place a fortnight ago."

"How naughty of you!" said his mother. "Then nothing I can say now is of any use?"

"Nothing," he replied tragically. "Too late! Too late!"

"Where is this loathsome shop to be?" Mrs. Harford asked.

"In Motcombe Street," said Jack.

"But that isn't a popular part at all," his mother objected. "Very few strangers pass along there."

"Pat says we don't want them," said Jack. "We shall send out catalogues, and gradually get to be known. Of course we don't mind if someone comes in by chance and buys the first folio; but there'll be no fourpenny box or anything like that at the door. It's a good address, and the rent is low."

"And you've actually taken it?" his mother asked.

"Actually," he replied.

"You will break my heart yet," said Mrs. Harford.

"Never," said her son, lifting her into the air.

"Don't be so absurd; let me down!" the little lady cried.

"Not till you've withdrawn that abominable remark about breaking your heart."

"Very well then—but only under pressure."

"And not till you've kissed me like a loving and thoroughly approving mother."

"I can't do that."

"Well, kiss me anyway," said Jack, holding her still higher.

And she did. Mothers (bless them) can be very weak.

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