Trist laughed good-humouredly.
'I will not promise.'
'No; that would be asking too much from a man who has made his own way with his own hands. My advice is: do nothing until the necessity arises. At the first rumour of war we will talk this over again. In the meantime, let us wait on events. You will write your leaders as usual, and I suppose you are busy with something in book form?'
'If,' answered Trist, 'there is war in Turkey, I will go, because I told you that I would, but that will be my last campaign.'
The editor looked at him with kindly scrutiny; then he scratched his chin.
'Why?' he asked deliberately, and with a consciousness of exceeding the bounds of polite non-interference.
'I cannot tell you—yet.'
There was a slight pause, during which neither moved, and the stillness in that little room which lay in the very heart of restless London was remarkable.
The editor looked very grave. There were no papers on his desk requiring immediate attention, but he held his pencil within his strong fingers ready, as it were, to add his notes to any news that might come before him. The responsibility of a great journalist is only second to that of a Prime Minister in a country like England, where the voice of the people is heard and obeyed. Had this man turned his attention to politics, he would perhaps have attained the Premiership; but he was a journalist, and from that small silent room his fiats went forth to the ready ears of half a nation. Few men read more than one newspaper, and we have not yet got over the weakness of attaching undue importance to words that are set in type; consequently the influence of an important journal over the mind of the nation to which it dictates is practically incalculable.
'You know,' said this modern Jove at length, 'as well as I do that there will be war as soon as the winter is over.'