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.

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.