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 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?"
"No," said Mr. Harford. "I was afraid not."
"Good evening, O'Reilly, You _are_ looking glum,"
Ben stood at the door long enough to see him stoop down and pat Soul's head.
On Ben's desk lay a long envelope addressed to Miss Staveley in an unknown hand. Opening it she found the following fantasy:
I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a mission to interview God for a paper.
"He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."
This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.
I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three inches above the head, not exactly shining but luminous. At night they must be very effective--if there is any night in Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be no next time.