"But I don't want to be a journalist, mother!" John had testily interrupted. "I want to write books and plays!"
"That's even worse." she had said. "It takes a man years and years before he can earn a living out of books. Mr. Hinde told me that!..."
"He seems to have told you a fearful lot," John sarcastically exclaimed.
"I asked him a lot," Mrs. MacDermott replied. "If you ever get that book of yours printed at all, he says, you'll not get more nor thirty pounds for it, if you get that much. And there's little hope of you making your fortune with the tragedy you're wasting your time over. Now, your Uncle William has a big turnover in the shop!..."
"I daresay he has," John snapped, "but I'm not interested in the shop, and I am interested in books!"
"Oh, well," Mrs. MacDermott murmured, "It's nice to have work that takes your fancy, but if you get married I'm thinking your wife'll have a poor job of it making ends meet on the amount of interest you take in your work, if that's all the reward you get for it. You were a year writing that story of yours, and you haven't had a penny-farthing for it yet. However, you know best what suits you. I suppose it's time we were thinking about the road!" She rose as she spoke, and Eleanor rose too. "Come up to my room," Eleanor said, "and we'll get your things!"
They left John sitting in the cheerless room. "That's a queer way for her to be talking," he said to himself. "Making little of me like that!"
He maintained a sulky manner towards his mother as they returned to Brixton, but Mrs. MacDermott paid no heed to him.
"Fancy having to go all this way to see your girl," she said, as they climbed the steps of Miss Squibb's house. "In Ballyards you'd only have to go round the corner!"
"I daresay," he replied, "but you wouldn't find Eleanor's match there if you went!"