"And you never think of the day when Ferrol doesn't want you any more?"
"Well, you know," Humphrey said, with a smile, "it's difficult to explain. We just trust to luck. After all, lots of men have drifted into journalism; when they're done, they drift back again."
"I see," Elizabeth Carr said, nodding her head gently. "And there are always fresh men to drift."
"I suppose so."
"And, you're quite content."
Humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "What else can I do?"
The bell rang. "Ah! what else!" she exclaimed, rising to meet her visitors.
The new-comers were introduced to Humphrey. One was a tall, thin man, with remarkable eyes, black and deep-sunken, and the thin mobile lips of an artist. His name was Dyotkin; he spoke English fluently, with a faint Russian accent. The other was a woman whose youthful complexion and features of middle age were in conflict, but whose hair tinged with grey left no doubt of her years. Although her dress was in excellent taste, it suggested an unduly overbearing wealth. Humphrey recognized her name when he heard it: Mrs Hayman. She was one of the philanthropists who helped Elizabeth in her work.
They went into dinner, to sit at a little oval Chippendale table just big enough for the four of them; Dyotkin and he faced one another, sitting between Elizabeth and Mrs Hayman.
"Your work must be very interesting," Mrs Hayman said.