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 It is hopelessly out of date by that time.'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