Gomme, pacing up and down the room, took no heed of the interruption.
“Writing history across the face of the world!... That is a bigger thing than spilling ink.... I know what it feels like a little,” he added. “The boxing sergeant knocked me down five times running in rapid succession at the gymnasium last night, and at the first fall I felt the transferred glory of what he must have felt. There is wondrous delight, a sense of the sublime, in conquest—even with the boxing-gloves on!... Of course, now, it would be something to write a tragedy.”
Noll snorted:
“Oh, tragedy’s all piffle! You don’t go to a theatre to sniff.... Give me a jolly good pantomime for an artistic jaunt. Shush! the governor.”
He vaulted on to his desk-stool as the door was flung open.
“Cafoshulam—it’s Julia!” he cried, swinging round on his stool again as the door shut with a slam, and a pretty young woman in neat black dress ran up to Netherby Gomme.
“Oh, Netherby,” she gasped, seizing his arm, “there’s a horror of a man keeps following me about—from the time I was at the coffee-shop—and I’ve been afraid to go back to the office lest he should follow me there. And so, at last, I’ve run up here. What am I to do? The man frightens me out of my wits.”
“Hush, Julia—keep calm.”
Gomme stroked her hand, and, leading her quickly to the editor’s room, threw open the door:
“Quick, Julia—in here!”