Tommy Clinton arriving as usual from Madeira in May, paid an early visit to "The Beck and Call," dallying awhile at the book shop, to whose allurements had now been added a few water-colours; and for water-colours Tommy had ever had a weakness. Indeed, he played a little with a paint-box himself.
"What on earth made you start this kind of thing?" he asked Ben, when their first greetings were over.
"Why not?" she countered. "I couldn't be idle. It's rather fun too."
"I suppose you've got some kind of a lease?" Tommy asked. "You're bound to let the experiment run a certain time?"
"Of course," said Ben. "I shouldn't drop it unless I had to."
Tommy was silent. These hostages to fortune did not suit him in the least.
"Is the fellow downstairs your landlord?" he asked.
"I take this floor from the book shop, if that's what you mean," said Ben, smiling at Tommy's transparency. "Did you go in there?"
"I just looked round," he said. "I didn't speak to anyone. Conceited-looking chap, I thought, and singing too; something about O'Reilly. I can't stand shopkeepers who don't look like it, and sing. Shopkeepers should wear black, and rub their hands. This fellow's in tweeds with a blue collar."
"That's Mr. Harford," said Ben. "His partner, Mr. St. Quentin, would have pleased you more: he's only got one leg. They were at Oxford together and then in the War."