Part 4

"But, aunt, dear," said Ben, "Toby is hardly ever at home. He's at Oxford until the vacation, and then he stays with friends. And he's six feet tall. It's far too long since you saw him. I assure you he's in no need of such sympathy."

"Poor child, poor child!" Lady Collum murmured. "It is dreadful when the cuckoo displaces the young meadow-pipits. I saw it on a film. Dreadful! My poor little Toby!"

"Well," said Ben, rising to go, and abandoning the struggle with preconceived ideas (always a stubborn one), "you'll send to me if you want any shopping done while you're down in the country, won't you?"

"Of course I will," said Aunt Agatha. "I'll do all I can for you. Let's see, what is the place called?--'Mind the Step'?"

"'Beck and Call,' aunt," said Ben.

"Of course. How funny I should have said 'Mind the Step.' And yet how natural!" she added, sighing deeply, "for I am always thinking about her. The step! What a tragedy for all of you! How could your father have done it! Well, you _will_ mind her, won't you? They're all hard and all cunning. I know. I've read about them. And deceitful. And they are always saving and stealing, and stealing and saving, for their own children."

"But, dear aunt, you are so wrong about this," said Ben. "Belle is the kindest thing. And she hasn't got any children of her own."

"So she says," was Lady Collum's last dark utterance.

XIV

Whether or no Ben's landlords made a special point of being on the premises at the hour of her arrival I can't say, but certain it is that they were always there to wish her good morning, and an element of rivalry as to which would wish it first was not absent. It is also certain that they esteemed highly the privilege of having such an agreeable tenant.

Every one has a favorite snatch of song, which can be sung unconsciously and bears no relation whatever to the mental status of the singer. This was Jack's, droned to an Irish melody:--

Good morning, O'Reilly, You are looking well. Are you the O'Reilly Who keeps this hotel? Are you the O'Reilly They speak of so highly? Good morning, O'Reilly, You _are_ looking well.

At quiet intervals all day this ditty reached Ben's ears from the ground floor, until it became the _motif_ of her employment, and she caught herself at all kinds of odd moments murmuring it too. In fact, "Good morning, O'Reilly, you _are_ looking well," was the password between Mr. Harford and herself. Mr. St. Quentin was less frivolous: his humour was of the sardonic variety; but he too had snatches of song, which also passed into Ben's repertory, chief of which was that sweet but mournful Scottish lullaby:--

My Bonnie lies over the ocean, My Bonnie lies over the sea, My Bonnie lies over the ocean, Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

As book sellers the two friends seemed to Ben to lack method and even knowledge, but she hesitated to judge them because she knew so little herself, and she could not but be conscious that her own business was an unprofessional affair. In fact, they were all amateurs.

Her suspicions as to her neighbours were first aroused by a visit from Mr. Harford one morning. He was carrying a volume, and his normally careless countenance registered perplexity if not despair.

"Please help me, Miss Staveley," he said. "Patrick's out and I've no notion what this book is worth. It isn't marked. There's a blighter after it downstairs, and he looks as if he might be a dealer himself, in which case it's probably valuable."

"It's no use asking me," said Ben. "You might as well ask your dog."

"But you're so clever," said Mr. Harford. "Tell me how it strikes you as a stranger. Hold it in your hand."

"No," said Ben. "I shan't even guess. Why don't you tell him it was on the shelves by mistake and isn't for sale?"

Mr. Harford looked at her with admiration.

"By Jingo!" he said, "that's brilliant!

You _are_ the O'Reilly They speak of so highly

and I don't wonder."

On another occasion Mr. St. Quentin was heard laboriously ascending the stairs, impeded by his poor wooden leg. He had begun with a wonderful artificial limb, fitted with springs and other contrivances, but, like so many other mutilated men, had given that up for a simple stump.

"Look here, Miss Staveley," he said, "I'm in a deuce of a fix. There's a poor devil downstairs who's brought in a bundle of books worth ten pounds, and he asks if I'll give ten shillings for them. What am I to do?"

"Behave like a gentleman," said Ben. "I should say, behave like yourself."

"Yes," said Patrick, "I want to. But I'm a book seller as well. I hope I'm not the sort of man to take advantage of ignorance, especially when it's mixed up with destitution; but, after all, business is business and one can't be buyer and seller too."

"I think that's rubbish," said Ben. "Of course you can. Every dealer is, but that's always the excuse. It makes me blush."

Patrick looked at her as though in the hope that he might miss none of the heightened colour when it came.

"All the same," he said, "the other day when I wasn't in, Jack gave a fellow a fiver for a book which was only worth sixpence, owing to some missing pages which he didn't detect."

"I don't see that that has anything to do with the present matter," said Ben. "Surely each transaction is separate."

"Yes," said Patrick, resignedly. "You're right. I'm a swine. How I hate business! None the less," he went on, "this business is only half mine; half is Jack's. I've got to do the best I can for both of us. Of course, I shan't give only a measly ten bob; but the point is, how much more ought I to give?"

"What could you get for the books?" Ben asked.

"They ought to fetch fifteen pounds," said Patrick.

"How soon can you sell them?" Ben asked.

"One never knows," said Patrick. "It might be to-morrow, it might be next year."

"That's rather important," said Ben, automatically using words that she didn't know she possessed; "because it might mean locking up capital. I think you ought to give him something between their value to you if you could sell at once and their value if you have to keep them in stock for a year. Say seven pounds ten."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Patrick. "You're the Queen of Sheba." And he plodded down again.

"I don't pretend to be able to advise you, Miss Staveley," said Patrick that evening. "I'm not clever enough. But whenever you're in any difficulty, come into the shop and we'll try the 'Sortes Virgilianæ.' It can be very comforting, and it always succeeds."

"Sortes Virgi----" Ben asked. "I suppose that's Latin, and I don't know any. I've had a rotten education."

"Oh, no," said Patrick, "I don't suppose you have. I expect you know lots of things that good classical scholars are utterly ignorant of. You can read and play music at sight, I'm sure?"

Ben admitted it.

"I knew you could. I call that the most miraculous thing in the world--putting one's fingers down on the notes accurately without any practice whatever. I'm sure Porson couldn't do that, even if he did drink ink. Jack can do it too, confound him! It's the one accomplishment I have always longed for, and I could never even whistle. But the 'Sortes Virgilianæ'--that was a game of chance and an appeal for guidance--every copy of Virgil an oracle, you know. It was like this. You were in a hole. Very well, you opened your Virgil at random and you took the first words that caught your eye as an inspired message. But nowadays people don't confine themselves to Virgil: they take any book. Let's try it. What is your perplexity at the moment?"

"Well," said Ben, "I suppose it would have something to do with getting clients, being able to be of any use to them when I did get them, and being able to pay you your rent."

"We'll try," said Patrick, taking a book at random from the shelf behind him, without turning round, and opening it. He looked at the page and laughed. "There you are," he said, pointing to the passage.

The book was "The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám" and the page was that on which was the quatrain containing the line:--

So take the cash and let the credit go.

"But there isn't any cash to take," said Ben.

"No," said Patrick, "but how does it go on?

Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.

That is the answer of the oracle. In other words, don't worry, take long views and if anyone has to suffer, let it be us and not you."

"But what is the drum?" she asked.

"The drum is Jack and me," said Patrick. "Your horrible, avaricious landlords."

XV

"Someone to see you, Miss Staveley," said Jan, with a flustered face, suddenly opening Ben's door. "I'm sorry," she added quickly and in a lower tone, "but I couldn't do anything else."

"This way, sir," she went on, to someone in the outer office, behind her, and in a moment who should be in the room but Colonel Staveley.

"Father!" exclaimed Ben.

"Well, why not?" replied the Colonel, but he looked anything but at ease. "Mayn't a father visit his daughter?"

"Of course, father, and I'm very pleased to see you. But it's so unexpected. I hope nothing's wrong. Please go on smoking."

"Thank you," said the Colonel, who had been careful not to throw his cigar away, although he had been holding it in such a manner as to suggest that he had done with it, but absent-mindedly had forgotten to drop it. He put it back to his lips with a sigh of relief, sat down and, with a searching eye, looked round at the files of letters and the folios and other signs of business.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Not so well," said Ben, "and not so badly. We are making both ends meet so far. But it's very hard work. There's so much to do, seeing people all day, that I never have an evening free. It's then that the real task begins--writing letters, making up the books and all the rest of it. Still I like it more than not, and it's interesting too. One never knows what the next minute may bring. Always something unexpected. You, for example."

"I'm sorry," said her father, bluntly. "I was hoping you might be tired of it and be willing to come back."

"Please don't think of that," said Ben. "I shouldn't do that, whatever happened. There are lots of other things to do if this fails or gets too difficult. But it won't."

"All right," said the Colonel. "Then perhaps you'll look on me not as a father but as a client. Do you say client or customer?"

"Whichever you like," said Ben.

"Client, then," replied the Colonel. "What I want is a cook. Not an ordinary cook, but a damned good cook. You know. A cook who sees that beef is underdone and mutton well done. A cook who sends any meat but the very best back to the butcher. A cook who doesn't stuff apple tarts with cloves and slices of lemon. A cook who keeps time. Belle--Belle is fine, she's splendid, but she doesn't understand."

Ben laughed. "I wonder how bad your cook is," she said. "You know, father, you're not the easiest creature to cater for. And--and does Belle know you're here?"

"Yes," said the Colonel, "I told her."

"All right," said Ben. "I'll do what I can. But, remember, you'll have to pay. Everything's dearer than it used to be. What does the present cook get?"

"I think it's fifty," said her father.

"Well, you'll have to go higher than that, for a good one. Very likely to eighty."

The Colonel groaned. "If I must, I must," he said. "Life isn't worth living as it is."

"I'll send one along," said Ben.

"You're a good girl," said the Colonel. "I'm proud of you."

"Wait just a moment, father," said Ben, as he rose to go. "You haven't given me the address of a milliner yet."

"A milliner? What milliner?" the Colonel inquired.

"Where I am to get a hat," said Ben.

"You are talking in riddles," said the Colonel. "I know nothing of any hat. With a business blooming like this I should say you could get your hats wherever you wished. In Paris even."

"I thought perhaps you had a special shop in mind," said Ben.

"I haven't an idea what you're referring to," said her father.

"Don't you remember?" Ben replied. "You said that if ever you entered my office you would give me a hat."

"Did I? I had forgotten. Of course if I said so, it shall be done. I'll ask Belle about a shop and let you know. What an infernal memory you have!"

Ben was as good as her word, and a new cook arrived at Hyde Park Gardens and gave satisfaction.

It is sometimes amusing to watch disapproval dissolving into esteem, mortification being transformed to pride. Not long after the new kitchen régime was in full swing the Staveleys gave a dinner party, at which the Colonel had on his right hand old Lady Philligree (widow of the famous magnate who had the big place at Moreton-in-the-Marsh). Lady Philligree is known to like her food as much as most people, and, in default of anything else to say to her host, or possibly because the topic came nearest her heart, she commented with intense appreciation on the entrée they were consuming.

"I'm glad you like it," said the Colonel. "The fact is, we have a new cook and she's a treasure. It doesn't do to extol one's own family, but I don't think I am breaking any social law very seriously when I say that I got her through my daughter. Ben, you know. Well, Ben, like so many of these headstrong, foolhardy girls to-day--since the War you know--insisted on breaking away from home and starting a domestic agency. 'The Beck and Call' she calls it. In Motcombe Street; quite close to Knightsbridge. Well, although it is not the best form for fathers to boast, I must say she's wonderful. No sooner did I ask her for a cook than she got me this one. She ought to make a fortune, she's so capable. Clearheaded, cool, with a charming manner, though again I say it as shouldn't. 'The Beck and Call' she calls it. In Motcombe Street, close to Knightsbridge. Over a book shop."

And when, during the latter part of the feast, after half-time, Mrs. Carruthers, on his left, paid a compliment to the savoury (an _entente cordiale_ of chicken's liver and mushroom) the Colonel made practically the same reply to her.

When we are deploring the inconsistency of human nature and the speed with which friend can become foe, let us not forget that, under other circumstances, the transition from adversary to advertising agent can be equally swift and complete.

XVI

Ben brought me occasional reports of her progress and whatever other news there might be; and I looked forward to these visits.

"We've been having the oddest applications," she said. "You have no idea how helpless people can be. They want advice on everything."

"The astonishing thing," I replied, "is that you can give it on such a variety of subjects."

"I don't know that I can," she said, "but I try to. And if one is fairly emphatic, it seems to satisfy them. I suppose decisiveness is very comforting. I see them positively adding an inch or two to their stature when I just say 'Yes' or 'No,' without any qualifications to dilute those excellent words. It's extraordinary how few people seem to have any initiative. And if one can't answer a question oneself," she went on, "one probably knows someone who can. I am requisitioning all my friends. Some day I shall put an awkward client on to you."

"I hope you will," I said.

"It isn't only that they ask ridiculous things," Ben confirmed, "but they so often want something more, for nothing. 'Now that I _am_ here, they say, 'perhaps you could tell me this.' Only to-day a woman who had come about Spanish lessons for her daughter asked me, as she was leaving and had paid, what to do with a cook who stole. I asked her if she could cook well, and when she said 'Yes,' I told her to keep her, even if she stole diamonds and pearls. But it was nothing but odds and ends. 'Odds and ends are replaceable,' I said, 'but a cook isn't. The whole world wants cooks at this moment. Besides,' I said, 'to take odds and ends isn't stealing at all--to a cook. We all have our code, and a cook's code permits her to take odds and ends and smuggle them out of the house, where she would be a pillar of honesty in the midst, say, of money or jewellery.' Every one is dishonest somewhere. My father, I'm sure, is scrupulous in most ways, but he boasts that he always does railway companies if he can. The best parlourmaids take cigarettes. The nicest people pocket matches. If you want to know something about petty purloinings by what are supposed to be the elect, ask the secretary of any women's club. And I'm told that in quite crack men's clubs the nailbrushes have to be chained.

"We have every kind of question and from every nationality," she went on. "A little Japanese woman came in the other day to know how to get lessons in English--at least, not exactly lessons. What she wanted was someone to read English books aloud with her. Not _to_ her; _with_ her. They were to sit side by side so that she could follow the pronunciation. She knew English perfectly, but had some of the words most comically wrong. But how natural! Indeed I don't know how foreigners ever get our words right. This little Japanese pet was completely puzzled by 'July,' for instance. She used the word as if it rhymed with 'truly.' And why not? We say 'duly' and 'unduly' and 'unruly' and 'Julius' and 'Juliet.' And then we say, 'July.' It's too absurd."

"And could you help her?" I asked.

"As it happened, I could. I remembered an old friend of ours who was only too glad to do it, and she has been writing since to thank me for giving her the opportunity of meeting anyone so charming."

"What I want to know," I said, "is how the dickens do you know what to charge?"

"There are several ways," said Ben. "There's a fixed tariff for certain things, and there's so much a quarter of an hour for interviews. For shopping I charge a fee. A time-chart is kept and they pay so much an hour and for cabs. But I don't do that for strangers, or, at any rate, not for anyone without an introduction.

"Most people," she continued, "want either servants or rooms; and I send them on to registry offices or house-agents, and share the commission. I couldn't as a regular thing go into either of those businesses myself. There would be no time left.

"Let me think of some of our recent applications," she said. "Oh, yes! A South African woman came in yesterday to know something about London churches. She was to be here for six months and wanted to take sittings somewhere; could I tell her the best preachers? They must be evangelical or, at any rate, low. Anything in the nature of ritualism she couldn't endure.

"And then," she went on, "there was a widow from Cheltenham who wanted advice about dogs. What was the best kind of dog for a lady living alone? She had noticed that the dogs of most ladies of her own age--that is to say, elderly--were very disobedient; but that would be no use to her. She did not want a dog that had to be led. I said that the most popular dog with elderly ladies at the moment was a Sealyham or West Highland. White, in any case. But I doubted if they were very obedient.

"She asked whether I thought a lady dog or a gentleman dog the more suitable. Really, people are marvellous."

"And how did you charge her?" I asked.

"I didn't. I said that the matter was off my beat, and gave her the address of a dog-fancier.

"She thanked me and went away, and ten minutes later left a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers.

"Then they want to know the best musical comedy; the name of a play that it would be all right to take auntie to; the place to buy the best linen sheets; whether or not one has to dress in certain restaurants; what time the National Gallery opens; how long a car takes to Hampton Court; how to get Sunday tickets for the Zoo; and where one has the best chance of seeing the Prince of Wales.

"But what most of them want," said Ben, "is what they call a _pied-à-terre_. You've no idea what hosts of people there are who would be happy if they only had a foot to the earth!--in other words, a week-end cottage. The simplest place in the world, where they can rough it, you know; return to nature, shake the horrible city off! But when we come to particulars there must always be a tennis lawn, hot water laid on, bathroom and so forth. Sometimes they insist on a telephone. I could let twenty of these places a week; and there's nothing so difficult to find! As it is, most of the real country folk, the cottagers proper, have been dispossessed in order that their homes may be converted for week-end purposes.

"Another thing we are always being asked for is a man and his wife. But they are difficult to get, too, because if the man's any good, the wife isn't, and if the wife is capable, the man drinks.

"But most of them," she added, "I don't see at all. Jan or Dolly disposes of them; and of course they don't pay. But we can't be rude to them. And after all, if you call your office, 'The Beck and Call,' you are rather, as Dolly says, 'arstin' for it.' In fact, Dolly wants us to make a charge for everything. He produced some placards the other day, which he had spent all Sunday on, to be hung up. One was for his own desk with:--

LONDON QUESTIONS ANSWERED TO THE BEST OF OUR ABILITY 2/6 EACH

on it.

"And one was for Jan:--

GENERAL INFORMATION GIVEN 2/6 EACH REPLY

"And for my door:--

MISS STAVELEY INTERVIEWS AT THE RATE OF 10/6 FOR QUARTER OF AN HOUR OR LESS

"But I wouldn't let him put them up. 'No,' I said. 'Save them for when you set up in business for yourself.'"

"'Me?' he said. 'Not 'arf. I'm going to be a bookie.' And I expect he is. 'I'd be one now,' he said, 'if I had any capital. That's all you want--a little capital to begin with. The rest is like shelling peas.'"

"'But in that case why are you here?' I asked him. 'Oughtn't you to be in a bookmaker's office?'"

"'I dare say I ought,' he said. 'But I prefer this job at the time.'"

"'Why?' I asked."

"'Because, to tell you the brutal truth, miss,' he replied, 'I like you.'"

XVII

"No," said the girl. "I don't think anyone would do but Miss Staveley herself."

She was a pretty girl, somewhere in the last teens, but at the moment she was flushed and nervous and looked tired out.

"Do you know her personally?" asked the loyal and wary Jan.

"I could hardly say 'know,'" replied the girl, "but we met at a dinner-party once. At Lady Toulmin's. Perhaps you would tell her?"

"You are quite sure it is nothing that I could do?" Jan inquired.

"Quite," said the girl.

"But Miss Staveley is very busy," Jan persisted. "We haven't got through the letters yet. Indeed, we're not really open. You must let me know what you want to see her about."

"I'm sorry," said the girl, "but that's impossible. Do please give her this card"; and Jan succumbed.

Ben, in her fortress, examined the card. "Miss Viola Marquand," she read. "What is she like?" she asked.

"Very young," said Jan. "And very pretty. Says she met you at dinner once at Lady Toulmin's. Her furs cost a hundred if they cost a penny. One of those gold mesh bags. No rouge, though. She seems excited and worried."

"And she won't say what she wants?"

"No," said Jan. "Not to me. Not to underlings. The boss or nothing."

"Well," said Ben, "show her in; but keep an eye on the time. She oughtn't to be here more than ten minutes. Interrupt us then."

Miss Marquand entered shyly. "It's very kind of you to see me," she said, "and I have no right to bother you like this; but I'm in great trouble and I remembered how much I liked you the only time we met. Do you remember?"

"Yes," said Ben. "I remember now."

"And I was hearing that you had opened an advice bureau, and so I have made so bold as to come to you, because no one wants advice--help, rather--more than I do."

"Well," said Ben, "tell me."

"It's very simple," said the girl. "I have got to pay two hundred pounds and I haven't a penny."

"Bridge?" Ben asked.