In days gone by he had tasted a spell of actual prosperity. By what coup he had made the money, and how he had lost it, are details, but he had now developed the fatal symptom of dwelling lovingly on that epoch when he had been so lucky, and so courted, and so rich. There is hope for the man who boasts of what he means to do; there is hope for the boaster who lies about what he is doing; but the man whose weakness is to boast of what he once did is doomed--he is a man who will succeed no more. If the sporting Baronet had grasped this fact, _The World and his Wife_ would never have been started, and Billy Beaufort would not have been looking for an assistant-editor to do all the work. Kent obtained the post. The man with whom Beaufort had parted was a thoroughly experienced journalist, who had put his chief in the way of things, but had subsequently called him an ass, and what Billy sought now was a zealous young fellow who would have no excuse for giving himself airs. Beaufort believed in Turquand's opinion, and had always thought him a fool for being so shabby, knowing him to have ten times the brain-power that he himself possessed, and Turquand had blown Humphrey's trumpet sturdily. He did more than merely recommend him; he declared--with a recollection of the nurse and baby--that Kent was _the_ man to get, but that he was afraid it would not be worth his while to accept less than seven pounds a week. When the matter was settled, Humphrey sought his friend again, and, wringing his hand, exclaimed: "You're a pal; but--but, I say! What are an assistant-editor's duties?" Exhilaration and misgiving were mixed in equal parts in his breast. Turquand laughed, as nearly as he could be said ever to approach a laugh. "The assistant-editor of _The World and his Wife_ will have to cut pars nimbly out of the English society journals and the Paris dailies, and 'put 'em all in different language--the more indifferent, the better!' He must handle the scissors without fatigue, and arrange with someone on this side to supply a column of London theatrical news every week--out of _The Daily Telegraph_. Say with _me_! It's worth a guinea, and I may as well have it as anybody else." "You're appointed our London dramatic critic," said Kent. "Won't you have thirty bob?" "A guinea's the market price; and I can have some cards printed and go to the theatres for nothing, you see, when I feel like it; they don't take any stock in _The Outpost_. He must attend the _répétitions générales_ himself--if he can get in--and make all the acquaintances he can, against the time when the rag dies." "'Dies'?" echoed Kent. "Is it going to die?"