Simpson began to dictate, hesitatingly; querying this; consulting her about that. “In reply to your favour of even date. . . .” Peter got up; wandered out into the warehouse; began a leisurely inspection of some newly-arrived dock-samples; pushed an oily _Corona_ from the centre of a ribboned bundle; lit it. Came Elkins. “Smooth” is the only adjective applicable to the new-comer. He had a smooth voice, smooth hair, smooth hands, a smooth manner and a very smooth silk-hat. He was clean-shaven, jet-haired; looked more like a junior clerk in Rothschild’s Bank than junior partner in a mercantile business. “Good afternoon, Peter,” he said. “What’s the trouble?” “Afternoon, Elkins. Come inside, won’t you?” Peter led the way into a tiny room off the warehouse: a room furnished with two chairs, a small gas-stove, and many cedar cabinets of cigars. “Coffin department?” queried Elkins, sitting down. . . . “I wanted to speak to you about Beckmanns,” began Peter, not acknowledging the trade jest. “Oh, we’ve been doing very little with the brand lately. The stuff’s no good, you know. Too strong. And the dollar-prices on current sizes too high.” “Really,” said Peter, who had for some years been drawing a small clandestine commission on the imports of both his competitors. “Then of course you won’t mind having to stop importing them.” At this, it seemed as though little wrinkles creased themselves all over Elkins’ smoothnesses. “Stop importing them? What do you mean?” Peter told him; not omitting to mention that “pending orders” would not be shipped. “But this is outrageous,” burst out young Elkins. “Positively outrageous. Why, we’ve been handling their goods for years. For years and years. Got customers for them. Customers who won’t take anything else.” “Yes, I know,” sympathized Peter: and named them. Elkins changed his note. “You don’t really mean to cut us off, Peter.” “Of course I do.” “But we’d buy the goods from you; pay you cash for them.” “Till you’d persuaded your customers to try something else. Not much. Besides, I want _all_ the profit; not just a percentage.” “But the pending orders. They’re mostly sold in advance. It will make us look ridiculous. Positively ridiculous. I don’t know _what_ my father will say. . . .” It was five o’clock by the time that Peter—having reluctantly promised to “think over” the matter of the pending orders—got rid of him; joined Simpson for a cup of tea. “You know,” said Simpson, “I simply can’t get over this contract business.” He pulled a piece of scribbling paper towards him, started figuring. “It means at least £1500 a year more profit. There’s the Cunard Company—they’ve been buying from Beresfords. And Towle at the Midland—that’s Elkins’ account. . . . I must talk to the travellers about this. Hargreaves is in the suburbs today; he won’t be in till the morning. I’ve written Mallabone to come up on Saturday. . . .”