“At last,” he said, “I have prevailed upon you to come and see me. Will you sit down? The chair is shabby, but great men and women have sat in it.”
He spoke pleasantly, with his twisted laugh, and when Eve was seated he sat slowly, carefully down again. He was thinking not so much of what he was saying as of his hearer. He saw that Eve was undeniably beautiful--the man saw that. The novelist saw that she was probably interesting. As he had just stated, great women had sat in the same chair, and it was John Craik’s impulse to save Eve from that same greatness. He had, since a brilliant youth at Oxford, been steeped, as it were, in literature. He had known all the great men and women, and he held strong views of his own. These were probably erroneous--many women will think so--but he held to them. They were based on experience, which is not always the case with views expressed in print and elsewhere. John Craik held that greatness is not good for women. That it is not for their own happiness, he knew. That it is not for the happiness of those around them, he keenly suspected. Some of Eve’s celebrated predecessors in that chair had not quite understood John Craik. All thought that he was not sufficiently impressed--not, that is, so impressed by them as they were themselves when they reflected upon their own renown.
He looked at Eve quickly, rubbing his hands together.
“May I, as an old man, ask some impertinent questions?” he inquired, with a cheerfulness which sat strangely on the wan face.
“Yes.”
“Why do you write?” he said. “Take time; answer me after reflection.”
Eve reflected while the great editor stared into the fire.
“To make money,” she answered at last.
He looked up, and saw that she was answering in simple good faith.
“That is right.”