“Then how can they help themselves?” asked Hermia, with a puzzled look.
“They had better wait until they can.”
Hermia did not care to pursue the subject, and saw, moreover, that Embury was waiting to be heard. “What would journalism do if no one knew how to lie?” she asked him, with a smile, and was somewhat surprised when every man at the table except Embury laughed aloud.
Embury colored, but replied promptly: “It would probably die for want of patronage.”
“You are right, Embury,” said Cryder. “You could not have found a more appreciative field for your talents.”
Embury looked at him reproachfully, and Cryder continued: “I never could resist the temptation to kick a friend when he was down. I will give you an opportunity later.”
“Life is made up of lost opportunities—I probably shall not see it. True, I might review your books, but to do so I should have to read them.”
“Is this the way literary people always spar?” murmured Hermia to Cryder.
“Oh! do not let it worry you,” he replied. “This is only facetiousness—American humor. It doesn’t hurt.” He dropped his voice. “Are you not well? You look tired.”
“I am tired,” said Hermia, returning his gaze—he seemed very near to her at that moment. “Clever people, singly, are very delightful, but en masse they keep one on the rack.”