Humphrey smiled. That was the commonest remark he heard. Those who did not know what the work was, perceived dimly its interest, but not one of them could ever be made to understand the intense, eager passion of the life.
"It is interesting," Humphrey said. "Miss Carr knows a good deal of it."
"I suppose you go everywhere—it must be splendid."
"When you talk like that, I, too, think it must be splendid. Sometimes, it's very funny."
"Still, it's nice to see everything, isn't it? And I suppose you go to theatres and concerts."
"Oh no! I'm not a critic. That's another man's work. I'm just a reporter."
"I don't know how you get your news. What do you do? Go out in the morning and ask people? And isn't it dreadfully difficult to fill the paper?"
It was always the same; nobody could understand the routine of the business. Everybody had the same idea that newspaper offices lived in a day of tremulous anticipation lest there should not be enough news. Nobody understood that the happenings in the world were so vast and complex, that their sole anxiety was to compress into four pages the manifold events that had happened while the earth had turned on its axis for one day.
"Now, yesterday, for instance?" Mrs Hayman said, with an inviting smile. "What did you do yesterday?"
"Oh, yesterday was an unpleasant day. I had to go to Camberwell late at night. A man had given himself up somewhere in Wales. He said he'd murdered Miss Cott—you remember the train murder, three years ago.... He kept a chemist's shop in Camberwell, we found out. So I had to go there. I got there dreadfully late. The door was opened by a girl. Her eyes were swollen and red. She was his daughter, I guessed.... I can tell you, I felt awkward."