"I suppose you come down often to buy goods," he suggested. "Or do you
send buyers? I don't know much about the conduct of business in a town
like this--or much about it at home, for that matter," he owned. "Though
I'm not sure I'm proud of my ignorance."
"It doesn't matter whether you know anything about it or not, of
course," said Benson, looking up at him with a queer expression of
wistfulness. "No, I'm my own buyer. And I don't buy of a great,
high-grade firm like yours; I go to a different class of fellows for my
stuff."
Richard drove on, thinking hard about Benson. What a pity for a fellow
of twenty-six or seven to look like that, careworn and weary. He
wondered whether it was the loss of his father and the probably
sorrowful atmosphere at home that accounted for the look in Benson's
eyes, or whether his business was not a particularly successful one. He
recalled that the one careless glance he had given the windows of
Benson's store had brought to his mind the fleeting impression that
village shopkeepers had not much art in the dressing of their windows as
a means of alluring the public.
As he drove on he felt in his pockets for a cigar and found his case
unexpectedly empty.
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