Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, while he gave directions to the series of sub-editors who came deferentially into his presence, an obscure worry persisted at the back of his consciousness. Of course—he had to confess it—he had neglected her of late. How long was it since he had been home? Only a month—or five weeks? The foreground of his brain, working at full pressure on the problems continuously submitted to it for instant decision, failed to solve the question—relegated it to be worried over by that independent consciousness at the back of his mind. It was a long time, anyway! Of course she understood. It was the paper—the paper to which he was the slave—which, practically, he never quitted (he had a bedroom in the building)—the paper of which he personally read every item that was printed and an enormous quantity of copy which was not—the paper which was his pride, his joy, his one interest in life! Of course, she understood—but it was rough on her. Poor old Betty! He thought of her strange voice, and winced with remorse. She had been brooding over no letter that morning. If only she would have gone to dinner with him! He felt that he could have explained things, put everything straight. But she had an appointment! What appointment? With whom? He put a thought out of his mind, and the thought peeped persistently over the barrier. Impossible, of course! Preposterous! Docile little Betty? Besides—who could there be? His vanity was scornful of the idea.
Nevertheless, as he worked, an impulse kept rising in him, ever more powerfully, an impulse to go home—to go home at once. He fidgeted as he beat back the disturbing desire, had to concentrate himself fiercely upon his task. Suddenly, as though the obscure subconsciousness, which was, after all, his real self, had come to a decision in which his brain had no part, he surrendered. He was surprised at himself as he sharply pressed the bell-button upon his desk. His secretary appeared.
“Tell Mr. Thompson to see the paper through to-night. Get me a taxi at once!”
The well-disciplined secretary barely succeeded in veiling his astonishment.
“Very good, sir.—And if we get that cable from Yokohama——?”
He bit his lip in an unwonted hesitation. Upon the contents of a cable expected that evening from Yokohama he would have to decide the policy of his paper, and upon the policy of his paper, as outlined in the leader which would be published in the morning, depended to a large extent the direction of the current of popular opinion—the current which would set in a few days toward peace or war. To-night, if ever, he ought to remain at his post, but the dominant impulse which had swept over him would take no denial. He felt like a traitor to his professional code as he replied:
“I may be back. If I am not, ring me up. You will find me at home.”
His straight stare at the secretary challenged and browbeat the bewilderment in that young man’s eyes.
“Very good, sir,” he said, submissively, and departed.