Humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. He felt it an honour to have Wratten as a guest, if only for a few minutes. They went upstairs, and Humphrey apologized for the bulrushes. Wratten laughed: "Why don't you suggest to Rivers that you should write a story about the dangers of bulrushes in sitting-rooms: interview a doctor or two, and make 'em say that bulrushes accumulate dust. Invent a new disease, 'Bulrush Throat.' That'll make your landlady nervous."
"By George," Humphrey said, "I will; that's a fine idea." Doubtless, you remember the scare that was raised a few years ago when The Day discovered the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; you remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the symposium of doctors' views that followed, and The Day's leading article on the mighty matter. Humphrey Quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave marked copies of The Day in places where Mrs Wayzgoose was certain to see them, and the bulrushes disappeared very soon afterwards. Thus is history made.
"I owe you a lot of thanks," Humphrey said, "for the way you helped me the other night."
It was the first time they had referred to the matter of the street suicide.
"I didn't want you to be let down," said Wratten. "The life's rough enough as it is, a little help goes a long way. But you steer clear of too much drink, Quain. That's the ruin of so many good men...."
"I couldn't help it."
"Of course you couldn't—most men are drunkards from habit and not from choice. But you can take it from me, there's no room in Fleet Street for a man who drinks too much. They used to think it was fine Bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a genius unless he was drunk half the time. Don't you believe it. It's the sober men who do the work and win through."
"It depends on what you mean by winning through."
"Well, there are many ways.... I suppose we've all got different ideas and ideals. I want to rear a family and keep a wife."
"You aren't married then?"