“Do you care to tell me what you mean to do?”

“Do!” He hit the door-post a sudden blow with an unexpectedly large hand.  “I shall have myself elected editor of the Post.”

“But—­but—­but—­” said the girl, taken aback by the largeness of this order—­“But you don’t expect to oust Colonel Cowles?”

“We are not necessarily speaking of to-morrow or next day.  An actuary will tell you that I am likely to outlive Colonel Cowles.  I mean, first, to have my dismissal recalled, and, second, to be made regular assistant editor at three times my present salary.  That is my immediate reply to the directors of the Post.  I am willing to let the editorship wait till old Cowles dies.”

“Tell me,” said Sharlee, “would you personally like to be editor of the Post?”

“Like it! I’ll resign the day after they elect me.  Call it sheer wounded vanity—­anything you like!  The name makes no difference.  I know only that I will have the editorship for a day—­and all for the worthless pleasure of pitching it in their faces.”  He looked past her out of the window, and his light gray eyes filled with an indescribable bitterness.  “And to have the editorship,” he thought out loud, “I must unlearn everything that I know about writing, and deliberately learn to write like a demagogic ass.”

Sharlee tapped the calcimine with her pointed fingernails.  He spoke, as ever, with overweening confidence, but she knew that he would never win any editorship in this spirit.  He was going at the quest with a new burst of intellectual contempt, though it was this very intellectual contempt that had led to his downfall.

“But your own private work?”

“Don’t speak of it, I beg!” He flinched uncontrollably; but of his own accord he added, in carefully repressed tones:  “To qualify for the editorship of course means—­a terrible interruption and delay.  It means that I must side-track My Book for two months or even longer!”

Two months!  It would take him five years and probably he would not be qualified then.

Sharlee hesitated.  “Have you fully made up your mind to—­to be editor?”

He turned upon her vehemently.  “May I ask you never to waste my time with questions of that sort.  I never—­never—­say anything until I have fully made up my mind about it.  Good-morning.”

“No, no, no!  Don’t go yet!  Please—­I want to speak to you a minute.”

He stopped and turned, but did not retrace the three steps he had taken.  Sharlee leaned against the door and looked away from him, out into the park.