"Public or private?"
Philip considered.
"Private."
Mr. Mablethorpe turned to his daughter.
"Inquisitive female," he thundered, "avaunt!"
"Oh, it's not private to Dumps," said Philip. "I have been offered a new billet, that's all."
"Then let us all sit down and argue about it," proposed Mr. Mablethorpe with zest. He threw his proofs on the floor. "My wife is upstairs, reading the mendacious prospectus of a new Continental spa, and I don't suppose she will develop the symptoms it professes to cure much before six o'clock. Go ahead, Philip."
"The directors want me to take charge of the London offices," said Philip.
"What are the London offices, where are they, and why do they require taking charge of?" enquired Mr. Mablethorpe categorically. Like all unmethodical and scatter-brained persons he cherished a high opinion of himself as a man of affairs.
"The London offices," said Philip, "are in Oxford Street. They consist of a show-room, full of new cars—the Company gets most of its orders through this show-room—and a biggish garage and repairing-shop at the back, opening into somewhere in Soho."