"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."