It was about half-past ten when the door of "The Beck and Call" office opened and admitted Mr. St. Quentin.

Ben was alone. "Dolly has a day off," she said, "and Miss Marquard is accumulating things for a number of our people, or I would ask you into the back room.

"What is the news?" she asked.

"Oh, I mustn't talk about news," said Pat. "I've come as a client."

Ben laughed. "A client! That's splendid." She became very businesslike. "What can we do for you to-day?"

"It's perhaps rather an odd request," said Pat, "but I was wondering if you could help me to find—well, in point of fact, a wife. For myself, I mean."

Ben reeled for a moment under the suddenness of the shock.

"A wife!" she then exclaimed, blushing a little and fumbling for her notebook. Anything to regain composure!

"Yes," said Pat. "There's nothing so extraordinary about that, is there? Lots of men have wanted wives ever since the world began. In fact, there's a rumour that that is why it has gone on."

"Yes—I know—I've heard," Ben replied. She was recovering her nerve now. "But we don't transact business like that here. You want a matrimonial agency, if there are such things."

"No, I want 'The Beck and Call.' I have the greatest faith in it," said Pat. "I believe it can get me one—if it will."

He looked at her with a smile in his grave eyes until she looked away; but she was smiling too.

"I'm afraid——" she began.

"At any rate," he said briskly, "let me describe my requirements and then perhaps you'll know better. Age, shall we begin with age?"

"If you insist on treating this as a marriage office, yes," said Ben.

"I do," said Pat. "Age, then: twenty-three or four."

"Yes," said Ben.

"But you haven't written it down," said Pat. "This is a serious request. I am honestly asking your help, and I've never been a real client before. First impressions, you know."

"Very well then," said Ben, making the note: "twenty-three or four."

"Height, medium," said Pat. "Hair, dark. Eyes, grey-blue. Have you got all that?"

"I've taken it down," said Ben.

"Voice, musical," Pat went on. "Laugh, delicious."

Ben looked away as she affected to write.

"Is that essential?" she asked.

"Absolutely," said Pat. "Must be in business," he went on. "No idle woman need apply. This kind of business would be all right."

"Do you mean she is to continue in business when she is married?" Ben asked.

"I should leave that to her," said Pat; "but I hope so."

"Aren't you rather narrowing it down?" Ben asked. "Making it rather difficult for yourself?"

"I was trying to make it more easy for 'The Beck and Call,'" he said. "If the essentials are so explicitly stated, so little time need be wasted on the search."

"You have been wonderfully explicit," said Ben. "But what about yourself? The girl—if she is found—will naturally want to know something about her husband, who at present, of course, is a stranger to her. What is she to be told?"

"That he is utterly unworthy," said Pat; "a man of twenty-seven who was knocked about in the War; a bit of a dreamer; a second-hand book seller with an ambition to write; fairly amiable in temper; fairly sound in health, but for a slight deficit in the number of legs normally served out to men; and, although, as I said, utterly unworthy, filled, for a woman of the kind specified, with worship, admiration, and love. Do you think you could find a wife for a fellow like this?" he asked.

Ben was silent. She stood still with lowered eyes and a heart beating much too fast, but very, very happy.

"Do you?" he asked again.

It was fortunate that no other inquirers arrived at that moment, for they would have found something very like a Universal Aunt in the arms of a second-hand book seller with only one leg.