He took the paper from the table and mumbled through it in an approving tone. “Good! you will do,” he said, at the end. “Now while we lunch together we can discuss terms. Ha! what has she brought us? Something that pretends to be German sausage! Good heavens! The depravity of the age! _This_ German sausage indeed! I must apologize to you for having it on the table, but servants are all alike nowadays—all alike! Not one of them can understand how to do the marketing properly. A worthless generation!” Frithiof began to be faintly amused by the old man, and as he walked away from Museum Street with a week’s work under his arm he felt in better spirits than he had done for some time. With not a little curiosity he sought out the Bonifaces’ shop in Regent Street. It had a well-ordered, prosperous look about it: double doors kept the draught from those within, the place was well warmed throughout; on each side of the door was a counter with a desk and stool, Mr. Boniface being one of those who consider that sitting is as cheap as standing, and the monotony of the long shelves full of holland-covered portfolios was broken by busts of Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, and other great musicians. The inner shop was consecrated to instruments of all kinds, and through this Frithiof was taken to Mr. Boniface’s private room. “Well,” said the shop-owner, greeting him kindly. “And have you made your decision!” “Yes, sir, I have decided to accept the situation,” said Frithiof. And something in his face and bearing showed plainly that he was all the better for his choice. “I forget whether I told you about the hours,” said Mr. Boniface. “Half-past eight in the morning till half-past seven at night, an hour out of that for dinner, and half an hour for tea. You will have of course the usual bank holidays, and we also arrange that each of our men shall have a fortnight some time during the summer.” “You are very thoughtful for your hands,” said Frithiof. “It is few, I should fancy, who would allow so much.” “I don’t know that,” said Mr. Boniface. “A good many, I fancy, try something of the sort, and I am quite sure that it invariably answers. It is not in human nature to go on forever at one thing—every one needs variety. Business becomes a tread-mill if you never get a thorough change, and I like my people to put their heart into the work. If you try to do that you will be of real value, and are bound to rise.” “Look,” said Roy, showing him a neatly drawn-out plan of names and dates. “This is the holiday chart which we worked out this summer. It takes my father quite a long time to arrange it all and make each dovetail properly with the others.”