“Nothing—and not even that gracefully.”
Constance did not laugh as she looked at him, for there was something at once earnest and bitter in the way he spoke.
“Why do you do nothing?” she asked. “Everybody works nowadays. You do not look like a professed idler. I suppose you mean that you are studying for a profession.”
“Not exactly. I believe my studies are said to be finished. I sometimes write a little.”
“Is that all? Do you never publish anything?”
“Oh yes; countless things.”
“Really? I am afraid I cannot remember seeing——”
“My name in print? No. There is but one copy of my published works, and that is in my possession. The pages present an irregular appearance and smell of paste. You do not understand? My valuable performances are occasionally printed in one of the daily papers. I cut them out, when I am not too lazy, and keep them in a scrap-book.”
“Then you are a journalist?”
“Not from the journalist’s point of view. He calls me a paid contributor; and when I am worse paid than usual, I call him by worse names.”