"As an advertisement?"
"Yes; it's stupid. Not enough people pass here in the evening to make it pay. It isn't as if it were at the seaside. Would you like a cup o' tea or anything?"
"No, thanks," he said.
"You may as well. I want a cup o' tea myself; it'll wake me up—I was just going to have forty winks when the man told me you were here."
"I'm sorry." He rang the bell. "I wish I'd come at another time."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," she returned; "there's always something.... I suppose you haven't heard from Vivian?"
"I never hear from him. I think it's nearly a year since I saw him. What is he doing?"
"He's got a first-rate berth. He left the company at the end of the last tour; you knew he was on tour with a theatrical company, didn't you? He's settled in one place now—much nicer for him than travelling all the time, a great improvement in every way." She roused herself to boast feebly about Vivian. "Not many young men of his age get into such a thing; it's a very responsible position, to be business manager of a theatre. And there's the salary all the year round—every week he's sure of so much. That's an advantage you can't hope for, eh? You may be comfortably off one year, and have nothing the next. Writing is so precarious—you never know where you are."
"I jog along," said David amiably.
"Oh yes," she allowed, "I'm sure it's wonderful, your keeping yourself as you have. And it's nice to have your book talked about. But of course there's no certainty about your profession—you can't depend on that sort of thing." She tittered. "Fame is all very well, but I'm afraid Vivian would say 'Give me a regular income.' ... He'll be up on Sunday, if you'd like to see him."