I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help thinking of William.  I felt sorry for him—­he looked so distrait.  When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness.  Indeed, I never imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely physical character—­such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily pain.  And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was depressing even to see him about the place.  I had just been re-reading Cyrano de Bergerac, whose case seemed rather applicable to William.  Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the same sensitive torment about his appearance.  Did William, like Cyrano, shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow?  Did he feel that because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever denied him?

I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than he had previously been.  Every woman finds something rather gratifying in being worshipped from afar, even if it is by an ‘impossible.’  Yet the idea of making him unhappy was distasteful to me.  I repeated my question to Henry.

‘Never seen William unhappy yet,’ replied Henry, looking up, ’he’s one of those few chaps who seem contented with life—­only wish I was the same.’

Something in his tone made me promptly forget William and concentrate on Henry.  ‘Aren’t you contented?’ I asked.

He paused a moment before replying, and then rather wearily indicated the article he was writing.  ’It’s this kind of thing, you know—­where does it all lead to?  At times I think journalism is the most exacting profession in the world.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled at his tone.

‘It is exacting because it seems to lead to nothing,’ he continued.  ’For instance, just think of all the energy, brains and effort involved in the bringing out of a newspaper.  Yet it is only read casually, skimmed over by most people, then tossed on one side and instantly forgotten.  It is conceived, born, and it dies all in one day.  Do you ever see any one reading a morning paper at, say, four o’clock in the afternoon?  It is hopelessly out of date by that time.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ I pondered.  ’Of course, journalism isn’t like a business that you can build up and constantly improve; but you can at least establish a reputation amongst newspaper readers.’

‘You can’t do that so well nowadays,’ returned Henry, who seemed in pessimistic vein, ’owing to the present demand for getting well-known names attached to articles.  We write them all the same, of course, but it’s the people with the well-known names that get the credit for having a good literary style.  Well, I always put the best of myself into my work—­I can’t write anything in a hasty, slovenly manner—­but where does it lead to?  Some day, perhaps, my ideas will give out and then——­’ he made a little hopeless gesture.