"Haven't you done about as you like, Tom, since you came home? I
promised your father on his death-bed that I would look after you, and
I have tried to do so in every possible way. I sincerely hoped that
your present work would suit you better than in an office. You are
free to roam where you will, and whatever adventure has taken place in
this city during the past six months you were in the midst of it, and
wrote excellent reports, too."

"I know that, sir, and I feel deeply indebted to you for what you have
done. But what does it all amount to? What interest do I take in
trouble along the docks, a fight between a couple of toughs in some
dark alley, or a fashionable wedding in one of the big churches? Bah!
I am sick of them all, and the sooner I get away the better."

Reynolds produced a cigarette, lighted it and threw the match upon the
floor. From the corner of his eye he watched the editor as he toyed
thoughtfully with his pen. This man was nearer to him than anyone else
in the world, and he was afraid that he had annoyed him by his plain
outspoken words.

"And you say you have nothing in view?" the editor at length enquired.

"Nothing. Can you suggest anything? Something that will tax all my
energy of mind and body. That is what I want. I hope you do not
misunderstand me, sir. I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you
have done."

"I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your
age, I might feel the same. But what about your painting? Have you