"You are much too modest. But if it should ever happen that you fail to supply any customers with what they desire, you can send them across to us. You'd do that, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I will," said Bence heartily. "That's what I say. We don't clash. We can't clash."
Mrs. Thompson struck the bell on her desk, and summoned a secretary.
"Send Mr. Mears to me."
The sight of Bence always ruffled and disturbed old Mears. Seeing Bence complacently seated near the bureau in the proprietorial sanctum, his face flushed, his grey beard bristled, and his dark eyes rolled angrily.
When Mrs. Thompson told him all about the furniture, he grunted, but did not at first trust himself to words.
"Well, Mr. Mears, what do you think about it?"
"I think," said Mears gruffly, "that it's like Mr. Bence."
"I was remarking," said Bence, nodding and grinning, "that we cannot possibly clash. Our customers are poor little people—not like your rich and influential clientele. Our whole scheme of business is totally different from yours."
"That's true," said Mears, and he gave another grunt.