“Well,” said Arminell, “I did not come here to talk about Giles, so we will dismiss him from our conversation. I have been considering this miserable matter, and I want to know what action you purpose taking on it.” “I also,” said the tutor, “have been revolving the matter in my head, and I have resolved to leave Orleigh as soon as possible, and to ask my uncle, Mr. James Welsh, my mother’s brother, to assist me to enter a literary career.” “Literary career! in what branch?” “I intend to write for the press, I mean for the papers. Mr. Welsh lives by his profession, and I will do the same.” “That must be more interesting than teaching little boys Mensa—mensæ, Dominus—domini.” “The press is the sceptre that now rules the world, and I will wield it.” “Oh, how I envy you!” said Arminell. “You are about to do something, something worth the labour, something the thought of which kindles ambition. You will escape out of this wearisome round of hum-drum into the world of heroic action. Here is my lord spending his life in petty duties as he regards them and has no result at the end to show; my lady thinking, planning, executing, and also with no result appearing; and I, wasting my time practising at the piano, running my voice over scales, doing a little sketching, reading odds and ends, picking flowers—and nothing can come of it all. We are made for more serious work.” “I believe,” said Jingles, “that the writer of leaders exercises more power, because he appeals to a wider circle, than even the member of Parliament. One out of every twenty who takes up a paper, reads the speeches, but every one reads the leading articles. I believe that we stand at the beginning of a great social revolution, not in England only, but throughout the civilized world, and I have long desired to take part in it, I mean in directing it. I do not hold the extreme opinions of some, but I have my opinions, no, that is not the word, convictions, bred in me by my perception of the inequalities, injustices, and unrealities of life as it is now organised.” “And you will work for your uncle?” “I do not altogether hold with him,” said Jingles. “He takes too commercial an aspect of the mission imposed on a man with his power and faculties for reaching the ear of the people.” “Do you intend to live with him?” “I cannot tell. I have decided on nothing as to the particulars. I have sketched out the broad features of my future career.” “And,”—Arminell’s voice faltered—“my father?” “I will write to him after I am in town, informing him that I know all, and that, therefore, it was not possible for me, with self-respect, to remain in his house.” Arminell looked down on the gravel. “You will not go into this matter, not have my mother’s name brought in question?” “I will do nothing that can cause you a moment’s pain,” answered Jingles patronisingly.