Considering her, now, a half-smile touching his lips, it occurred to him that here, in her, he saw his audience in the flesh. This was what his written words did to his readers. His skill held their attention; his persuasive technique, unsuspected, led them where he guided. His cleverness meddled with their intellectual emotions. The more primitive felt it physically, too.
When he dismissed them at the bottom of the last page they went away about their myriad vocations. But his brand was on their hearts. They were his—these countless listeners whom he had never seen—never would see.
But he had spoken, and they were his——
He checked his agreeable revery. This wouldn’t do. He was becoming smug. Reaction brought the inevitable note of alarm. Suppose his audience tired of him. Suppose he lost them. Chastened, he realised what his audience meant to him,—these thousands of unknown people whose minds he titivated, whose reason he juggled with, and whose heart-strings he yanked, his tongue in his cheek.
“Eris,” he said with much modesty, “have you ever read any of my stuff?”
“No. May I?” she asked, shyly.
“I wish you would. I’d like to know what you think of it——” Always with her in his mind typifying the average reader,——“I’ll get you my last Sunday’s story——” He jumped up and sped away like a boy eager to exhibit some new treasure.
When he returned from his own room with the Sunday edition, Eris was lying back on her pillows. Something about the girl suddenly touched him.
“You poor little thing,” he said, “I’m sorry you’re down and out.”
Her grey eyes regarded him with a sort of astonished incredulity, as though unable to comprehend why he should concern himself with so slight a creature as herself.