Henry's heart sank. He saw himself within the next five minutes politely ushered down the stone staircase, through the front door and so out into Hill Street.
"I don't think," he said, "that I will make you a very good secretary, not in the accepted sense. I know that I shall make mistakes and be clumsy and forgetful, but I will do my very best and you can trust me, and—I am really not such a fool as I often look."
These were the very last words that Henry had intended to say. It was as though some one else had spoken them for him. Now he had ruined his chances. There was nothing for it but to accept his dismissal and go.
However, Sir Charles seemed to take it all as the most natural thing in the world.
"Quite," he said. "Your brother-in-law tells me that you are an author."
"I'm not exactly one yet," said Henry. "I hope to be one soon, but of course the war threw me back."
"And what kind of an author do you intend to be?"
"I mean to be a novelist," said Henry, feeling quite sure that this was the very last thing that Sir Charles would ever consider any one ought to be.
"Exactly. And you will I suppose be doing your own work when you ought to be doing mine?"