"But well in Laysford may be ill in London," he replied.
"That's just it. Why not be content, and don't play the dog with the bone?"
A woman seldom sees beyond the end of her nose. Flo Winton was no doubt perfectly honest in her counsel to Henry, and entirely selfish. Let his professional chances go hang; he was doing pretty well in Laysford, and she rather fancied the town as a place to live in. Besides, "out of sight, out of mind."
"It is the reverse from the dog and the bone," returned Henry. "What I now hold is little better than the mere shadow of success, the real thing is only to be found in Fleet Street. Comfort, food, raiment, furniture, money to spend—these can be earned in the provinces, but the success I aim at must be sought in London."
"Dear me! And what will you do with it when you've found it—if you ever do so?"
This was scarcely lover-like, and Henry felt the implied sneer; but he was determined not to be shaken from his plan. He did not answer Flo.
"Money to keep a nice home and go about a bit among the smart set of the town—isn't that success?" she continued. "You are working that way here. You're a somebody here; in London you'd be one of the crowd. At least, that's what I believe."
"And I too, Flo. Fancy being a somebody in a town whose Lord Mayor can barely sign his name, whose chief constable is a habitual drunkard, whose town clerk wouldn't be fit for devilling to a London barrister, whose whole corporation is a gang of plunderers scheming for their own ends. Fancy having to whitewash these ruffians in my leading articles. A somebody! Rather the millioneth man in London than the first in Laysford."
This looked bad for Flo; her reason for his staying was his own reason for wishing himself away. Henry was horridly honest and absurdly upright to be a newspaper editor in a thriving provincial town.
"I tell you frankly," he went on, while Flo walked now in moody silence by his side, "I could never settle down in Laysford. Any ass with money is courted here."