Her mother, as always when she put it like that, corrected her. “You know father hates you to say that, Daphne. Take Orders.”
“Well, take Orders, then. Are you, Tedders?”
“I think not,” said Eddy, good-tempered as brothers go. “At present I’ve been offered a small reviewing job on the Daily Post. I was rather lucky, because it’s awfully hard to get on the Post, and, of course, I’ve had no experience except at Cambridge; but I know Maine, the literary editor. I used to review a good deal for the Cambridge Weekly when his brother ran it. I think it will be rather fun. You get such lots of nice books to keep for your own if you review.”
“Nice and otherwise, no doubt,” said the Dean. “You’ll want to get rid of most of them, I expect. Well, reviewing is an interesting side of journalism, of course, if you are going to try journalism. You genuinely feel you want to do this, do you?”
He still had hopes that Eddy, once free of the ritualistic set, would become a Broad Church clergyman in time. But clergymen are the broader, he believed, for knocking about the world a little first.
Eddy said he did genuinely feel he wanted to do it.
“I’m rather keen to do a little writing of my own as well,” he added, “and it will leave me some time for that, as well as time for other work. I want to go sometimes to work in the settlement of a man I know, too.”
“What shall you write?” Daphne wanted to know.
“Oh, much what every one else writes, I suppose. I leave it to your imagination.”
“H’m. Perhaps it will stay there,” Daphne speculated, which was superfluously unkind, considering that Eddy used to write quite a lot at Cambridge, in the Review, the Magazine, the Granta, the Basileon, and even the Tripod.