Keith drew up two chairs to the fire. The chairs were very deep, very large, very low, comfortable beyond Isaac's dreams of comfort. Keith lay back in his, graceful in his abandoned attitude; Isaac sat up very straight and stiff, crushing in his knees the soft felt hat that made him look for ever like a Methodist parson.
His eyes rested heavily on the littered table. "Well," he said, "how long have you been at it?"
"Oh, ever since nine in the morning—"
(Longer hours than he had in the shop); "—and—I've two more hours to put through still." (And yet he had received him gladly.)
"It doesn't look quite as easy as making catalogues."
"It isn't."
Isaac had found the opening he desired. "I should think all this literary work was rather a 'eavy strain."
"It does make you feel a bit muzzy sometimes, when you're at it from morning to night."
"Is the game worth the candle? Is it worth it? Have you made your fortune at it?"
"Not yet."