Netherby Gomme coughed:
“Yes, sir,” said he, “a great deal of the promise of youth goes into the waste-paper basket.”
Anthony Baddlesmere laughed uncomfortably; the laugh died out of his eyes, obliterated by a frown:
“Downstairs,” he went on, as though repeating an unpleasant task he had set himself—“downstairs they have given the public trash—cheap. And I have lost.... In me the literary enthusiasm, a little chilled, perhaps, remains; but the youth has gone. As for you—you are office-boy still, to all purposes, and lank still—but, lord! how you have grown!”
Netherby Gomme looked down at his scanty trousers and sighed:
“Yes, sir, I have grown.”
“H’m! like a scandal,” said Baddlesmere; and a gleam of merriment shot into his eyes, ran round the corners of his mouth, and vanished. “Gomme,” said he, “we are at the end of our resources. This is our last week in these rooms.... The office is bare—my home is bare. All my money—all my wife’s literary success—all have gone to feed the printing machine. It’s great inky maw has swallowed everything.... However, there is no debt—except to you. But that is a heavy one. My conscience tells me that you ought not to have been allowed to remain here and share in the collapse; you ought to have been promoted—to have been sent to—to——”
He hesitated—stopped.
“Where, sir?” asked the yellow-haired youth.
The bald fact was that Baddlesmere had never given the matter a thought until this disaster was upon him. He smiled sadly, and added vaguely: