“I’m crying,” said Ryan. But he still held the typescript, and he was now looking at the top page. Then up went the eyebrows again. “‘A good deed in a naughty world’,” he read, mincingly, like a man biting on a lemon. “What the hell sort of language is that?”

“Shakespeare,” said Grant.

“I’m crying again,” said Ryan. His fist smacked down on the desk. “This is the Telegram,” he said, with horrible emphasis. “Down the street is the Colonial Theatre. Round the corner is burlesque. Here is a newspaper! Choose which one you want to write for. But for the love of Christ, don’t get them mixed!”

“It isn’t all Shakespeare,” said Grant rebelliously.

“Shakespeare will be relieved.”

“It’s a good story,” repeated Grant, avoiding battle on this uncertain ground. “As a story, it has everything. And,” he concluded lamely, pointing, “it’s all there.”

“At two thousand words, it damned well ought to be.”

Ryan began to read in silence, while Grant watched him closely. He was still confident, in spite of the unpromising start, because he had one fact to carry him: Esther Costello was a wonderful story, worth every word he’d put into it, worth the front page on most days of the week … Presently Ryan picked up his pencil, and held it poised over the copy – an encouraging sign, thought Grant: he must want to print it after all, if he thinks it’s worth altering.

“‘If anyone is a saint,’” read Ryan suddenly, tonelessly, “‘if anyone is a saviour, it is Belle Bannister.’” He looked up. “That’s to get the Catholic vote, I suppose.”

Grant flushed. “She is that sort of woman. At least, she’s doing that sort of job, where the Costello girl is concerned.”

“I just wanted to know.” Ryan began to read again, while Grant, momentarily hating him, stood silent and ill at ease. Perhaps he had tried a bit too hard with this story, perhaps the attempt at glowing prose was inclined to fall flat on its face, here and there … Ryan lit on another phrase that he himself had not been sure of – ‘a hand reaching down to cherish and nourish a frail plant’ – and read it aloud, with acid intonation, before he scored it out.

“We have a separate section for agriculture,” he said. “They do pretty well … Don’t tell me it’s Shakespeare again?”

“No,” said Grant. “Not this time.”

“Good,” said Ryan. “I was getting worried about my education … The trouble with you,” he went on, looking up from the copy momentarily, “is that you’re not nearly tough enough for this game. You’re a sucker for this sort of thing” – he gestured towards the typescript – “you feel it instead of reporting it. It’s as if you want to get involved in the world’s troubles. You’re in the wrong job, Harry. You ought to be running a home for old whores.”

The first time Ryan had used the phrase ‘wrong job’, Grant’s heart had nearly turned over. Now, after the hundredth or the thousandth time, he simply smiled, and said: “I’ll try it out for a little longer.”