“What exactly is your work, Belovedest?” she asked one day.
He replied: “I teach the great and good men who are the King's ministers of state how to govern the country. I show philanthropists how to spend their money. I read many books and tell people how beautiful and wise the books are, so that people should read them and become beautiful and wise, too. Sometimes I preach to foreign sovereigns on the way in which their countries should be ruled. I am what is called a journalist, dear.”
“It must be the most wonderful work in the world,” cried Stella, aglow with enthusiasm, “and they must pay you lots and lots of money.”
“And how you must love it--the work, I mean!”
“Every hour spent in the newspaper-office is a dream of delight,” said Risca.
Walter Herold, who happened to be present during this conversation, remarked, with a shake of his head, as soon as they had left the room:
“God forgive you, John, for an amazing liar!”
Risca shrugged his round, thick shoulders.
“He will,” said he, “if He has a sense of humour.” Then he turned upon his friend somewhat roughly. “What would you have me tell the child?”
“My dear fellow,” said Herold, “if you would only give the world at large some of the imaginative effort you expend in that room, you would not need to wear your soul to shreds in a newspaper-office.”
“What is the good of telling me that?” growled Risca, the deep lines of care returning to his dark, loose-featured face. “Don't I know it already? It's just the irony of things. There's an artist somewhere about me. If there was n't, why should I have wanted to write novels and plays and poetry ever since I was a boy? It's a question of outlet. There are women I know who can't do a blessed thing except write letters; there they find their artistic outlet. I can find my artistic outlet only in telling lies to Stella. Would you deny me that?”
“Not at all,” said Herold, with a gay laugh. “The strain of having to remember another fellow's lies, in addition to one's own, is heavy, I admit, but for friendship's sake I can bear it. Only the next time you add on a new wing to that infernal house and fill it with majolica vases, for Heaven's sake tell me.”
For Herold, being Risca's intimate, had, for corroborative purposes, to be familiar with the dream palace, and when Risca made important additions or alterations without informing him, was apt to be sore beset with perplexities during his next interview with Stellamaris. But being an actor by profession (at the same time being an amateur in all other arts), he was quick to interpret another man's dream, and once, being rather at a loss, improved on his author and interpolated a billiard-room, much to Risca's disgust. Where the deuce, he asked, in angry and childlike seriousness, was there a place for a billiard-room in his palace? Did n't he know the whole lay-out of the thing by this time? It was inexcusable impertinence!