as really
happening, and why; so that he could contradict that man in the other
paper. It must be wonderful to be writing, daily, what thousands and
thousands of people read! Yes! It must be a very sacred-feeling life! To
be able to say things in that particularly authoritative way which must
take such a lot of people in--that is, make such a lot of people think
in the same way! It must give a man a terrible sense of responsibility,
make him feel that he simply must be noble, even if he naturally wasn't.
Yes! it must be a wonderful profession, and only fit for the highest! In
addition to Mr. Cuthcott, she knew as yet but three young journalists,
and those all weekly.

At her timid ring the door was opened by a broad-cheeked girl,
enticingly compact in apron and black frock, whose bright color, thick
lips, and rogue eyes came of anything but London. It flashed across
Nedda that this must be the girl for whose sake she had faced Mr.
Cuthcott at the luncheon-table! And she said: "Are you Wilmet Gaunt?"

The girl smiled till her eyes almost disappeared, and answered: "Yes,
miss."

"I'm Nedda Freeland, Miss Sheila's cousin. I've just come from
Joyfields. How are you getting on?"

"Fine, thank you, miss. Plenty of life here."

Nedda thought: 'That's what Derek said of her. Bursting with life! And
so she is.' And she gazed doubtfully at the girl, whose prim black dress
and apron seemed scarcely able to contain her.

"Is Mr. Cuthcott in?"

"No, miss; he'll be down at the paper. Two hundred and five Floodgate
Street."

'Oh!' thought Nedda with dismay; 'I shall never venture there!' And
glancing once more at the girl, whose rogue slits of eyes, deep sunk
between check-bones and brow, seemed to be quizzing her and saying: 'You
and Mr. Derek--oh! I know!' she went sadly away. And first she thought
she would go home to Hampstead, then that she would go back to the
station, then: 'After all, why shouldn't I go and try? They can't eat
me. I will!'

She reached her destination at the luncheon-hour, so that the offices
of the great evening journal were somewhat deserted. Producing her
card, she was passed from hand to hand till she rested in a small bleak
apartment where a young woman was typing fast. She longed to ask her
how she liked it, but did not dare. The whole atmosphere seemed to her
charged with a strenuous solemnity, as though everything said, 'We have
power--great power.' And she waited, sitting by the window whi