“When do you want me to go?” I asked.

“You’ve worked here for ten years and you ask that? Well, I’m surprised at you. The answer is, you go as soon as possible. Which is this very moment.” He blew out a cloud of cigar-smoke.

“All right,” I said. “You phone Susan. She won’t be pleased, though.” I went to the door.

“I’m only joking,” he said. “Can’t I have a bit of a joke?” His tone was that of a starving man who has a crust of bread snatched from him. “You’re all so serious-minded, you young ones. Catch the first train tomorrow. Get your secretary to book a room at the Savoy.”

I raised my eyebrows. He didn’t look at me but mumbled something about our biggest customer and being able to afford it.

When I was at the door he called me back. “Joe, have you thought about what we discussed yesterday?”

I sat down again, this time on the sofa to his right instead of the office chair in front of his desk. The sofa was part of the new executive suite designed for him by his wife; I found it too low for comfort, but deliberately sat there because it was presumably intended for guests, for private people and not employees.

“I’ve thought about it,” I said, and saw to my delight that he looked ill-at-ease. Or was it the new executive suite, the hand­some walnut desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a drawing-room, the matching cocktail cabinet and coffee-table, the lilac-covered sofa and chairs, the cream fitted carpet and lilac and cream curtains? It needed a young American style executive – crew cut, Old Spice, Italian silk suit – behind that handsome desk: Brown didn’t belong there.

He rose abruptly and began to pace up and down the room.

“You’ve got the wrong idea, Joe. You don’t have to do this. It’s a private matter between you and me.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t spend very much time at home as it is.”

“Neither do I, neither do I. I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself, lad.”

“I grant you that,” I said automatically. But it didn’t really apply; he hadn’t a young wife, two children and a hundred inter­ests he wanted to do something active about before it was too late; and what was more, he enjoyed being a councillor.

“Well, what do you say?” He pushed across the box of cigars. I hesitated, then took one.

“I called in at the Club last night,” he said. “They’re very keen. We need young blood, that’s a fact. Last year was a sad year for us all. Men like Harry Runcett don’t grow on trees.”

I looked at him coldly. He meant that he wouldn’t easily re­place so useful a yes-man as Harry Runcett.

“They were agreed you’d be the ideal candidate. I was a bit surprised—” He held up his hand to silence me. “Now, hear me out and don’t fidget as if you’d got piles. I was a bit surprised be­cause it’s not often that lot all are agreed. George Aisgill—”