"My own occupation is, I fear, not unsuited to an industrial town. Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"Still, journalism is at least a province of literature," said the visitor, smiling.
He helped himself to a cigarette, and took the easy-chair Henry had moved forward to the fire.
"A sphere of influence, perhaps, if not quite a province," Henry replied, catching something of Mr. P.'s rather studied conversational manner, as he seated himself and toyed with his cigarette. "I am beginning to think that literature and journalism have less in common than I once supposed. Have you ever engaged in journalism?"
"Only slightly. I have done a little in the reviews, chiefly on musical subjects. My efforts have been in the direction of fiction."
Henry had almost remarked that the name of his fellow-lodger was not familiar to him as a writer of fiction, but congratulated himself on leaving the thought unexpressed; and since the other made no further reference to his own work, Henry fancied he might be one of the rare authors who did not care to discuss their books, and wisely refrained from inquiring too closely as to the nature of these literary efforts at which the still mysterious Mr. P. had so vaguely hinted. The latter also tacked away from the subject, and continued after a pause:
"I see you are well up-to-date, Mr. Charles, in the matter of books," his sleepy eyes brightening almost into eagerness while they scanned the heap of new novels for review lying on Henry's desk.
"That in a sense is forced on me," replied the young editor, "although my own personal taste is to blame for the extra work involved. Until I suggested it the Leader had paid practically no attention to books. You see, it sells for its market reports and local news—far more important things than literature."
"It was always the way; the arts have hung for ages on the skirts of trade."
"The result is that I have to do all our reviews myself."