The young man glanced up. "It was my father you have heard of. He died three years ago. However," he added, with an odd touch of pride, "he always said that I wrote the better articles."
There was a moment's silence. Varney felt by turns astonished, disgusted, sorry, embarrassed. Then he burst out laughing.
"Well, you have a nerve to tell me this. Smith. In doing so, you seem to have brought our conversation to a logical conclusion. I thank you for your kindly advice and piquant confession, and so, good evening."
Mr. Smith straightened on his packing-case and spoke with unexpected eagerness.
"Oh—must you go? The night's so young—why not—come up to the Ottoman and have something? I'll—I'd be glad to explain—"
"I fear I cannot yield to the editorial blandishments this evening."
"Well—I merely—"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. But remember—you'll get into trouble if you stay."
Varney laughed.