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.

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