"Why, what sort of business was it?"
"It wasn't scavenging, and it wasn't burglary—exactly. It was—" he hesitated—"only the second-hand book-trade."
"I know—they make a lot of money that way."
"They make too much for my taste sometimes. Besides—"
"Besides what?" They had turned into an embrasure of the parapet to discuss this question. They stood close together looking over the river.
"It isn't my trade. I'm only a blooming journalist."
"You don't make so very much out of that, do you? Is that the reason why we have to wait?"
"I'm afraid so. But I hope I shall be something more than a journalist some day."
"You like writing, don't you?"
"Yes, Flossie; I shouldn't be much good at it, if I didn't."