Henry thought this an adroit remark, and fancied it must lead to a confession, but his companion merely inclined his head as if he had not quite caught the words, and went on:
"Ah, but Browning has expressed with grand simplicity the impulse that sends the wanderer back—'Oh, to be in England now that April's there!'"
The chance had gone, "conversational openings" were valueless to one pitted against Adrian Grant. Henry fumbled nervously among the commonplaces of speech, and his friend, with scarcely another reference to himself, was presently making the young journalist talk of—Henry Charles.
"You seem to have been burning the midnight oil too assiduously, I think. A trifle paler than when I saw you last. Still grinding away, I suppose."
"Yes; it is grinding. I have moments when I think journalism sheer hack-work. The glamour of the thing is as delusive as the ignis fatuus."
"And there you have life itself. Ergo, to journalise is to live."
"I begin to believe you are right, but I could have wished to make the discovery later."
"It's never too early to know the truth. But come, you are surely thriving professionally, for I heard your study of the Brontë's which you wrote for the Lyceum highly praised by the editor when I was in London last week."
"That is indeed welcome news. You know Swainton, then?"
"A little. You see, I have done some work for him myself. The fact is—"