So these two men passed out of the huge building together. Each was in his way a power in the world. Each stood at the top of his own particular tree. Passing through the crowded thoroughfare, they could not fail to attract some attention, and yet they walked on in sublime unconsciousness. Conceit is a growth that flourishes only in the spring of life, unless it be a singularly noxious and hardy weed. In summer, and before the autumn, it usually dies down. Neither of these men was young—each had, years ago, given up thinking of his own person. To both the work placed in their hands was fully absorbing, and a busy man has little leisure to contemplate his own manifold advantages and points of superiority over the common herd.
Each was in his sphere a genius, and there is something about genius that attracts the eye, although the possessor be clad in modesty. I have seen genius clad in something much more common than modesty—namely, rags—and have recognised it with no difficulty. The editor of the great newspaper was in appearance a somewhat remarkable man: broad of shoulder, with a massive head and huge limbs, he was one of those exceptional beings whom men turn in the streets to look at again. His companion was less likely to attract an observant eye. Although he was taller, he seemed to require less space to move and breathe in than his companion. His movements were smooth and quick, while in passing people on the pavement he touched no one, and never got in the way, as did the absorbed journalist at his side. There was no special physical peculiarity about Theodore Trist to stamp him in men's minds as some one apart. As has already been stated, he carried his head and shoulders with the uprightness of a soldier, and it was only the keener eyes around that, looking into his face, detected the incongruity of his physiognomy.
'Where is your luggage?' inquired the editor suddenly, as they walked along.
From his manner it would appear that he feared that Trist had forgotten this necessary item. Under similar circumstances he would no doubt have done so himself.
'It is waiting for me at the station,' was the reply; 'I went to my rooms after dinner and packed up.'
'It cannot have taken you long,' abstractedly.
'No; I am not taking much.'
The journalist seemed suddenly to return to practical things.
'But,' he inquired, 'I suppose you are prepared to stay some time if necessary?'
'Oh yes!'