Banneker shook his head, but wistfully.
“Until you’re making enough to carry your own.”
“That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never.
“Then get out of it. Let Old Man Masters find you something in the Street. You could get away with it,” persuaded Densmore. “And he’ll do anything for a polo-man.”
“No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I’d rather stay a reporter.”
“Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you can take a mount on your day off.”
“I’m thinking of another job where I’ll have more time to myself than one day a week,” confessed Banneker, having in mind possible magazine work. He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The Retreat. It was expensive; it would involve frequent taxi charges. But, as ever, Banneker had an unreasoning faith in a financial providence of supply. “Yes: I’ll come in,” he said. “That is, if I can get in.”
“You’ll get in, with Poultney Masters for a backer. Otherwise, I’ll tell you frankly, I think your business would keep you out, in spite of your polo.”
“Densmore, there’s something I’ve been wanting to put up to you.”
Densmore’s heavy brows came to attention. “Fire ahead.”