“Happy youth,” said Mr. Williamson, smoking and blowing the smoke up amongst his books bound in calf.
“Well, not particularly happy that I know of,” said Paul; “but still, with all respect to you, I thank God I am happier than some people.”
“And you don’t think the Bible is Hebrew mythology? In fact, you are a virtuous, good boy. You think it’s a good thing, too, to have been born an Englishman, and that we are better and braver than other people, and all that stuff?”
“All this I steadfastly believe,” said Paul, remembering a passage in the Prayer-book.
“Very well; I shall not try to influence your orthodox views, and I will endeavour to promote your temporal prosperity. You like the Pyrotechnic office, and you think you will get on?”
“Yes, thank you, I do,” said Paul.
“I suppose, like most fellows connected with newspapers in any way, you would rather be on the literary staff? You would like to be giving forth your own opinions, and see them printed in long columns of leaded type?” said the barrister, who was evidently highly amused with Paul, whom he seemed to regard as an agreeable study.
“I sometimes think I should be glad if I could write,” said Paul.
“There’s nothing in it, my boy—nothing at all. At first there is a kind of satisfaction about the thing; but it all arises from conceit: it is all vanity and vexation of spirit, as the Preacher says. It is all very well if you can obtain one or two comfortable engagements, with permission to write pretty well what you please; and when you can combine literature, as I do, with another distinguished profession.”
Mr. Williamson smiled at this bit of quiet waggery of his own, seeing that he had never yet had more than a single client.