“Oh, it can’t be so bad as all that, Colin! Do anything in the way of writing nowadays?”
Colin flushed.
“Haven’t touched it for a year. You see, I did make an attempt to please the governor.”
“And before that?”
“Had a few small things accepted here and there, locally, you know.”
Anthony sighed. “I broke forcibly away from the uncongenial myself,” he said, “so my sympathy is genuine. But it didn’t mean falling into clover. I’m here from seven to twelve six days a week doing things I hate, and earning some money. For the rest of the day I’m free—and sometimes my brains are free, too—to do things I like, which, however, seldom earn anything. My income is about four pounds a week, and it might stop any week. I’m telling you these things, Colin, not to discourage you, but simply to prepare you—”
“But four pounds a week is rather good,” said Colin.
“So I thought when I was a student, living at the cost of my father. Why, now, I could easily spend it all on books alone.”
“Are—are you married?” Colin ventured.
“No . . . I’m not complaining, you know. Four quid is doubtless as much as I deserve, but I’d like to be able to look forward to something bigger—only I daren’t hope. If I were you, Colin, I’d leave writing—journalism or the other thing—for a last resort. Take a look round and see what you can see. I suppose you have some stuff to go on with.”