"That's right," said Ferrol. "Try and find an individual style of your own. No room for imitators here. Still, there's plenty of time to talk about that. I just wanted to let you know I've had my eye on you." Ferrol nodded, Humphrey turned to go.
Then he remembered he was going to ask Ferrol for a rise in salary. He came back to the desk.
"Oh, Mr Ferrol," he said, "I ought to tell you, I'm going to be married."
Ferrol pushed his pad aside. What a fool he had been to think he could constitute himself the only influence in this boy's career. How was it he had overlooked the one important factor—a woman. It came so suddenly, this revelation of Humphrey's intimate life, and all at once Ferrol found himself swayed with an unreasoning dislike of this unknown woman—it was an absurd feeling of jealousy.—Yes, he was jealous that anybody should exercise a greater influence than himself over Humphrey, now that he had decided to push him forward to success.
"Married!" he said, harshly, "you damned young fool!"
The words came as a blow in the face. Humphrey flushed, and found that he could not speak. He thought of Ferrol's soft words that had opened up such illimitable visions of the future, and then, quite unexpectedly—this.
"Somebody in Easterham?" asked Ferrol.
"Oh no! Nobody in Easterham. She lives in London. She's in Fleet Street."
"A woman journalist?"
"No—she's a typist."