“You going to stay here some time?” asked the Editor, after a longish silence.
Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make a long stay.
“For health, for your mental health, my boy,” rejoined the newspaper man. “To get used to human faces so that they don’t hit you in the eye so hard when you walk about the streets. To get friendly with your kind. I suppose that assistant of yours can be trusted to look after things?”
“There’s the half-caste too. The Portuguese. He knows what’s to be done.”
“Aha!” The Editor looked sharply at his friend. “What’s his name?”
“Who’s name?”
“The assistant’s you picked up on the sly behind my back.”
Renouard made a slight movement of impatience.
“I met him unexpectedly one evening. I thought he would do as well as another. He had come from up country and didn’t seem happy in a town. He told me his name was Walter. I did not ask him for proofs, you know.”
“I don’t think you get on very well with him.”