“What do I want with money, my dear fellow? If I had more I’d only spend it for books. And I’ve more of them now than I know where to put them. No; keep all you can for capital in the business. Or stick it into an advertisement scheme I’ve been working out—” “You’re an odd devil, Briggs,” said Radnor. He was a small dark man with great mournful eyes and a little clipped moustache over a timorous mouth, and his lips were always twitching. “A queer devil. What I should have done without you, I don’t know. If I could do what I want, I should offer you a partnership.” “Don’t be a damned fool,” said Triona. “A partner puts in money and I haven’t a bean. Besides if I were a partner, the whole show would go to hell.” “Why?” “I should immediately want to go and do something else,” replied Triona. “I give it up,” said Radnor. “Best thing you can do,” said Triona. How could the very grateful young proprietor divine the spiritual crankiness of his foreman? He went through the English equivalent of shoulder shrugging. Briggs, from the business point of view, was a treasure fallen from Heaven. And Briggs was a mystery. He didn’t begin to pretend to understand Briggs. Briggs obviously didn’t want to be understood. Radnor was a gentleman. He could press the matter no further. “Let us get this business up to a net profit of three thousand a year and then we may talk,” said Triona. “Three thou—! Good God, man, I couldn’t talk. I’d slobber and gibber!” “That’s where I’ll come in,” laughed Triona. He had set his heart on this wash-out from the war making good. Just before Christmas he had an added incentive. A melancholy lady and a wistful pretty girl had flashed for a week end through Fanstead. They had come from London and had put up at The King’s Head. Radnor had made the tour of the proprietor through the garage. “This is Mr. Briggs, my foreman, whom I’ve so often told you about.” And afterwards, to Triona, with an air of inconsequence: “A kind of aunt and cousin of mine who wanted to see how I was getting on.” Poor old chap! Of course they wanted to see how he was getting on. The girl’s assessing eyes took in everything, himself included. The unbidden phrase flashed through his brain. “He shall marry the girl by Michaelmas Day!” The sudden impishness of it delighted him. “By God, he shall!” he swore to himself. So he refused an increase of salary and, by following an _ignis fatuus_ of an ideal, he kept his conscience in a state of interested amusement at the mystification of his employer.