He did not know that, as he was speaking, the old years came back again to Ferrol, bringing with them once again the vision of Margaret and those secret walks outwards from Easterham, under the white moon of romance and love and supple youth that could be his never more.
Ferrol sighed.
"You ought to be very happy," he said. "I think the happiest time of my life was when I was reporting."
"Were you ever a reporter?" asked Humphrey.
"Oh yes! I didn't buy The Day at once."
He rose and went to a cabinet to fetch silver and enamelled boxes of cigars and cigarettes. The cigarettes were oval and fat.
"I don't think you've had enough scope," said Ferrol, handing him a lighted match. "You've done well ... not as well as I hoped ... but perhaps you'd do better elsewhere."
A peculiar sensation attacked Humphrey in the regions of his throat and heart. ("Most certainly you are to have your salary raised or be sacked.") He waited tensely.
The butler came into the room, apologetically.
"Half-past nine, sir," he said; "the car's waiting, sir."