"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.