She nodded and at the word the train of association became complete. Langley—of course—the 1905 Langley, who had been the big man in his day and left a train of college glory behind him that even yet was not obliterated by the hundreds of more recent graduates. He had begun the student government—but possibly it was not the same one. She was sure she hadn’t better ask him.
“Isn’t it odd,” he was saying, “how many college graduates think they can reform the world just by getting on a newspaper? They think such foolish things—that papers are forums of opinions—that they can write things they want to write. My dear young lady, a newspaper is only a medium for advertisers, that is, if it’s successful.”
“But I know that,” answered Horatia, “perfectly. I’m quite practical about it. And I don’t want to reform the world. I want to live right in it. I’m not the least bit of a reformer. I rather like the world.”
She looked so engagingly young and sweet and sensible that the man’s face brightened—almost involuntarily, as if he did not want it to brighten.
“You’re a romanticist, young lady.”
“I started out this morning from an ugly stone house on a lovely hill to seek my fortune. There was only one trouble. No one put any obstacles in my way and no one knew I was going to seek it really. The people I told didn’t understand. You’re the first person who has begun to talk to me, so I told you. And I’m getting too expansive. But I feel much better.”
“I wish I could give you a job, young adventurer,” answered the man, a little irrelevantly. “You might bring back some of the enthusiasm I had when I was as young as you are. But I was more solemn.”
“Oh, I can be solemn on occasion,” said Horatia. She was having a tremendously good time, talking to this man who didn’t know her name and to whom it was so easy to talk. And he too was warming to the conversation.
“You see, I haven’t much of a newspaper. Three of us run it and we don’t do our own printing. There is one man who had hopes as I did. There is another who drinks too much—when he writes well—and writes badly when he drinks too little. We started out to make a newspaper which would not muck-rake, you know, but tell the truth about things. And we find, dear young lady, that nobody wants us. Even you wouldn’t want a job from us.”
“I truly think I would,” said Horatia. “Don’t you want a woman’s department? I really would enjoy doing society personals for a paper with a purpose.”