“There are more substantial sheets than this one, you know.” He spoke pleasantly and Horatia felt suddenly expansive and ready to talk. “I’ve been to them all. One won’t have me, another wants me possibly to do society personals, and another wants me to run a spicy scandal column for them.” “So they would. But as fourth fiddle I’ve nothing much better to offer, I’m afraid. I don’t need reporters, which I suppose is what you are hankering for, nearly as much as other ingredients for this paper.” “I’m sorry,” said Horatia. “I’d like to work next to this view.” “That’s why I took the office. I thought that too. But I can’t put the things that view tells me across with the public.” “They would be pleasant things,” said Horatia. She was interested and meant to find out as much as she could about this man and his queer paper. And she felt in him a willingness to prolong the conversation. To test it, she turned to go. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “Again I’m sorry.” “It’s too bad. Will you give up the journalistic life now that the Big Four have offered you so infinitely less than nothing?” “I suppose I’ll have to.” “Have you done any of it yet? I beg your pardon for the question, which, not being a prospective employer, I haven’t any right to ask. Don’t answer if you don’t like.” “I don’t mind. I’ve done no work--of any kind. Just raw--out of college.” “University?” She nodded and at the word the train of association became complete. Langley--of course--the 1905 Langley, who had been the big man in his day and left a train of college glory behind him that even yet was not obliterated by the hundreds of more recent graduates. He had begun the student government--but possibly it was not the same one. She was sure she hadn’t better ask him. “Isn’t it odd,” he was saying, “how many college graduates think they can reform the world just by getting on a newspaper? They think such foolish things--that papers are forums of opinions--that they can write things they want to write. My dear young lady, a newspaper is only a medium for advertisers, that is, if it’s successful.” “But I know that,” answered Horatia, “perfectly. I’m quite practical about it. And I don’t want to reform the world. I want to live right in it. I’m not the least bit of a reformer. I rather like the world.” She looked so engagingly young and sweet and sensible that the man’s face brightened--almost involuntarily, as if he did not want it to brighten. “You’re a romanticist, young lady.” “I started out this morning from an ugly stone house on a lovely hill to seek my fortune. There was only one trouble. No one put any obstacles in my way and no one knew I was going to seek it really. The people I told didn’t understand. You’re the first person who has begun to talk to me, so I told you. And I’m getting too expansive. But I feel much better.”