"Let's see.... Ah! yes; you've been on an Easterham paper, haven't you?"
"Three years," Humphrey replied.
"That all the experience you've had?"
Humphrey smiled faintly. "That's all," he said.
"What do you want to do?"
Here was an amazing question for which he was totally unprepared. It had never occurred to him that he would be asked to make his choice. His eyes wandered to the buttons.... What did he want to do? He made an answer that sounded futile and foolish to him.
"I want to get on," he stammered, hesitatingly, with a picture of his aunt rising mentally before him.
Ferrol's eyes twinkled. It was a magic answer if Humphrey had but known. Most of the others he saw wanted to do descriptive writing, they had literary kinks in them, or wanted to have roving commissions abroad.... None of them wanted to start at the bottom.
"Well, this is the place for young men who want to get on, you know," said Ferrol. "It's hard work...." He turned away and consulted some papers. "I think I'll give you a chance," he said.
The clock struck twelve, and it sounded to Humphrey that a chime of joy-bells had flooded the room with triumphant music.