"Oh, nothing in particular, only I supposed that a Spaniard to a yellow journalist was like a red rag to a bull. You should make them into copy—'Conspiracy in a Fifth Avenue Club,' etc."
"Thanks," said the other, "so I might. Valuable suggestion." And he returned his note-book to his pocket.
"They did me a good turn, anyway," resumed Banborough. "They were talking about my book—thought it would serve its purpose, was very striking, said nothing better could be devised; and they were foreigners, too. I tell you what it is, Marchmont, the public will wake up to the merits of 'The Purple Kangaroo' some day. Why doesn't the Daily Leader notice it?"
"My dear Cecil, give me the space and I'll write a critique the fulsome flattery of which will come up to even your exacting demands. But just at present we're so busy arousing popular enthusiasm that we really haven't time."
"You never do have time," replied Banborough, a trifle petulantly, "except for sleeping after lunch."
"Ah, that's all in the day's work. But tell me. You're an Englishman; why didn't you publish your book in your own country?"
"I may be green, but I don't impart confidences to an American journalist."
"Nonsense! I never betray my friends' confidences when it's not worth—I should say, out of business hours."
The Englishman laughed.
"Oh, if you don't think it worth while," he said, "I suppose there's no danger, so I'll confess that my literary exile is purely to oblige my father."