“So they would. But as fourth fiddle I’ve nothing much better to offer, I’m afraid. I don’t need reporters, which I suppose is what you are hankering for, nearly as much as other ingredients for this paper.”
“I’m sorry,” said Horatia. “I’d like to work next to this view.”
“That’s why I took the office. I thought that too. But I can’t put the things that view tells me across with the public.”
“They would be pleasant things,” said Horatia. She was interested and meant to find out as much as she could about this man and his queer paper. And she felt in him a willingness to prolong the conversation. To test it, she turned to go.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Again I’m sorry.”
“It’s too bad. Will you give up the journalistic life now that the Big Four have offered you so infinitely less than nothing?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Have you done any of it yet? I beg your pardon for the question, which, not being a prospective employer, I haven’t any right to ask. Don’t answer if you don’t like.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve done no work—of any kind. Just raw—out of college.”
“University?”