he went into the office of the special news agency and found himself in a room where half-a-dozen girls were typewriting. they were making manifold copies of the hundred and one events that the special news agency "covered" with its beavers, and supplied at a fixed annual rate to the newspapers. the special news agency were, so to speak, wholesale dealers in news. you bought the reports of ministers' speeches or out-of-the-way lawsuits by the column. it was the same principle that governed the easterham gazette and its columns of stereo. no newspaper could afford a sufficiently large staff of reporters to cover everything. so the special news agency had its corps of verbatim shorthand writers, its representatives in every small village, and in every police-court. there was, of course, no room for the play of imagination or fantasy or style in these special news agency reports, and it was because of their rather stilted writing that the reporters on papers like the day and the sentinel and the herald were sent sometimes over the same ground that the news agency men had covered, to see if they could infuse some fresh interest into the story, or at all events to rewrite it, so that instead of each paper being uniform, it would strike its individual note in the presentation of news. the special news agency did for london and england what reuter does for the world.

there was among the cluster of girls working at their typewriters one who looked up at humphrey and smiled, as he waited for beaver. she was not a particularly pretty girl, but there was a quality in her hair and eyes[111] and in the expression of her face that lifted it out of the commonplace. the mere fact that out of all the girls who were at work in the office, she alone left the memory of her face to humphrey, is sufficient tribute to her personality.

she smiled—and humphrey remembered that smile, and the hair, that was dull brown in shadow and gleaming with golden threads in the sunlight, and the eyes, that were either grey or blue, and very large. and then, beaver came and took him to lunch.

they went to a fleet street public-house, and lunched off steak and bubble-and-squeak for a shilling, and all through the lunch humphrey was thinking of other things—especially a smile.

"well," said beaver, "got over your hump?"

"i suppose so," humphrey answered. ("i wonder what her name is?")

"life's not so bad when you get used to it?" beaver remarked, contemplating his inky thumbs. "the trouble is that just as you're getting used to it, it's time to die. eh?"

humphrey's thoughts were wandering again. ("i believe those eyes were saying something to me?") beaver continued in his chatter, and occasionally humphrey, catching the sense of his last few words, agreed with a mechanical "yes," or a nod ("why did she smile at me?"), and at last he blurted out, "i say, beaver, what's the name of the girl that sits nearest the door in your office?"

"o lord! i don't know their names," said beaver; "i've got other things to think about. what d'you want to know for?"

"she's like some one i knew in easterham," humphrey replied, glibly.

"i'll find out for you, if you like."

"no—don't bother. it doesn't matter at all."

[112]

the next day he was walking down fleet street when he perceived her looming through the crowd. he was conscious of a queer emotion that attacked him, a sudden dryness of the throat, and a quickening of all the pulses of his body. his whole being became swiftly taut: he almost stood still. and, as she bore down upon him, he saw that she was not so tall as he had imagined, but her face looked divinely attractive under the shadow of the spreading hat, and because the sun was shining her hair glittered like a halo. now, she was close to him, and he found himself praying to god that she would look at him, and smile again; and the next moment he felt that the ground would sink beneath him if she did so, and he longed to look the other way, but could not. the people passing to and fro knew nothing of the terrific disturbance that was going on in the mind of the young man walking down fleet street. now they were level—he raised his hat—it was over, and the memory of her smile had sunk yet deeper within him. yes, she had remembered him, and nodded to him, and that smile—what did it mean? it was not an enticing smile, it was an almost imperceptible movement of the closed lips, yet it held some magic in it. it seemed to him that though they had never spoken, she knew all about him; she came across his life, smiling in silence, and he was aware that something triumphant and fresh had come into his life, with her passing, just as he knew for a certainty that, before long, he would learn the secret of her smile, when he spoke to her.

he went back to work, curiously elated and happy for no reason at all that he could understand. things were unaltered, and yet, somehow or other, they were different. he felt, suddenly, as if years had been added to his age; he felt that he had met something real in life at last, and, when he came to analyse it, it was[113] nothing but an intangible smile, and the glance of two grey eyes.

that night, as he was on his way home, he chanced to meet wratten. this tall man with the high forehead and curly hair was one of the puzzles of the office. he was a man who held aloof from his fellows, and because of that, they thought he was morose. humphrey had a tremendous admiration for him, since the night when wratten had helped him. he seemed so very splendid: he did daring things, and he never failed. the secret of his success was a brutality that stultified all his better feelings when he was on business. and he was a man who never left his quarry, though it meant waiting hours and hours for him.

"hullo," said wratten, "where are you off to?"

"home," said humphrey; "where are you?"

"i'm going home too. i live at the hampden club at king's cross."

they were near guilford street "won't you come up, wratten, and have a drink in my rooms—i live here, you know."

"i don't take anything stronger than lemonade," said wratten.

humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. he felt it an honour to have wratten as a guest, if only for a few minutes. they went upstairs, and humphrey apologized for the bulrushes. wratten laughed: "why don't you suggest to rivers that you should write a story about the dangers of bulrushes in sitting-rooms: interview a doctor or two, and make 'em say that bulrushes accumulate dust. invent a new disease, 'bulrush throat.' that'll make your landlady nervous."

"by george," humphrey said, "i will; that's a fine idea." doubtless, you remember the scare that was raised a few years ago when the day discovered[114] the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; you remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the symposium of doctors' views that followed, and the day's leading article on the mighty matter. humphrey quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave marked copies of the day in places where mrs wayzgoose was certain to see them, and the bulrushes disappeared very soon afterwards. thus is history made.

"i owe you a lot of thanks," humphrey said, "for the way you helped me the other night."

it was the first time they had referred to the matter of the street suicide.

"i didn't want you to be let down," said wratten. "the life's rough enough as it is, a little help goes a long way. but you steer clear of too much drink, quain. that's the ruin of so many good men...."

"i couldn't help it."

"of course you couldn't—most men are drunkards from habit and not from choice. but you can take it from me, there's no room in fleet street for a man who drinks too much. they used to think it was fine bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a genius unless he was drunk half the time. don't you believe it. it's the sober men who do the work and win through."

"it depends on what you mean by winning through."

"well, there are many ways.... i suppose we've all got different ideas and ideals. i want to rear a family and keep a wife."

"you aren't married then?"

"not yet. i'm going to be married ... soon," said wratten, simply. "i think marriage is the best thing for us. we want something to humanize our lives. it is the only chance of happiness for most of us ... the knowledge that whatever happens, however hard the[115] work may be, we come home ... and there's a wife waiting. i know plenty of journalists who would have gone under if it were not for the wives. splendid wives! they sit at home patiently, knowing all our troubles, comforting us, and keeping us cheerful. by god! quain, the journalists' wives are the most beautiful and loyal women in the world...."

humphrey smiled—and this was the man they thought was morose!

"i get maudlin and sentimental when i think of 'em. they know our weaknesses, and our mistakes, and they bear with us. they smooth our hair and touch our faces, and all the misery of the day goes away with the magic of their fingers. they make little dinners for us, that we never eat, and they never let us see how unhappy they are, too ... i know, i know ... i've seen so many journalists' homes, and they're all the same ... they're simply overgrown children who let themselves be mothered by their wives."

humphrey thought of the girl he had passed that day in the street.... "i wish i were you," he said. "it must be rather fine to have some one pegging away at you always to do your best: it must be rather fine to have a smile waiting for you at the end of the long day's work."

"fine!" said wratten, "it's the only thing that's left to us. we're robbed of everything else that matters. we haven't a soul to call our own, and we can't even rule our lives. time, that precious heritage of every one else, doesn't belong to us. we're supposed to have no hearts, we're just machines that have always to be working at top speed ... but, thank god, there's one woman who believes in us, and who is waiting for us always."

"it's funny you should talk like this," humphrey said, "to-night, of all nights...." he was thinking again[116] of himself and the girl who had crossed the path of his life.

wratten knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and coughed with that little dry cough that was characteristic of him. "oh! i don't know," he said. "nothing funny when you come to think about it. i thought you might have heard it in the office. i'm being married to-morrow. by the way, i wish you'd come along and be best man: i haven't had time to fix up for one."