"Of course! You wouldn't confess to a mistake. Not you.
Nevertheless I have my suspicions about it."

Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the seated
Editor.

"How funny," he said at last with the utmost seriousness, and was
making for the door, when the voice of his friend stopped him.

"You know what has been said of you? That you couldn't get on with
anybody you couldn't kick. Now, confess--is there any truth in the
soft impeachment?"

"No," said Renouard. "Did you print that in your paper."

"No. I didn't quite believe it. But I will tell you what I
believe. I believe that when your heart is set on some object you
are a man that doesn't count the cost to yourself or others. And
this shall get printed some day."

"Obituary notice?" Renouard dropped negligently.

"Certain--some day."

"Do you then regard yourself as immortal?"

"No, my boy. I am not immortal. But the voice of the press goes
on for ever. . . . And it will say that this was the secret of your
great success in a task where better men than you--meaning no