"Quite."
"Let's say I'm content with my lot."
"Are you really, Brandon?"
Brandon took in the young man's wide shoulders, the face that was almost too young for such a responsible position. For just an instant he had felt that this man would be different, that there might be a challenge here. He could see he was wrong. The man was going to offer him a position.
"Let's get to the point," he said hurriedly. "I'm happy making puppets and I feel no need for a change."
"I'm glad you are happy, Mr. Brandon."
"Good. Then there is no need to continue. I refuse your offer." Brandon was getting irritated. He didn't wait for an answer, he walked past Evans, into the house.
He stood by his desk. The pile of papers was still resting there, waiting for him. He had hoped, in some magical way, that they might have vanished. A foolish thought, he knew.
"Income tax?" he heard Evans say from his shoulder.
Brandon nodded wearily. Evans reached over and picked up a form. He frowned. "Complicated!"