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Updated: June 27, 2025
Morgan when ushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was the editor of the Beacon. Not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person. He fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight inclination, said suavely "This, sir, is, I believe, your printing day?" "It is, sir, and a busy day with us," replied the editor, with no great warmth of manner.
He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side. "Mr. Bodery?" "The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?" "Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?" "Not at all," replied the editor, breaking his return ticket. "D n!" said Sidney suddenly. He was beginning to rise to the occasion.
The Vicomte did not return this attention; he glanced at the clock instead. He was thinking of Signor Bruno, but he was too polite and too diplomatic to give way to restlessness. At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it were, a masked battery; for he knew that the Frenchman was ignorant of his connection with one of the leading political papers of the day.
Bodery had gained the day. In the room below Mr. Morgan wrote on in his easy, comfortable manner. The editor was still thoughtfully playing with his pencil. The sharp little boy was standing on his head in the passage. At last Mr. Bodery rose from his chair and began his preparations for leaving.
"Good morning, Morgan," said the editor, hanging up his hat. "Morning," replied the other genially, but without looking up. Before Mr. Bodery had seated himself, however, the sub-editor laid his hand with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof-sheet before him, and looked up. "This article of Vellacott's is first-rate," he said.
The reviewing you can do yourself, as we can always send you the books, and there is no pressing hurry about them. The general work we will manage somehow won't we, Morgan?" "Of course we will; as well as and perhaps better than he could do it himself, eh? Ha, ha!" "But seriously, Vellacott," continued Mr. Bodery, "things will go on just as well for a time.
It burnt in a dull and somewhat flickering manner for some years; then a new hand fed the flame, and its light spread afar. It was from pure good nature that Mr. Bodery held out a helping hand to the son of his old friend, Walter Vellacott, when that youth appeared one day at the office of the Beacon, and in an off-hand manner announced that he was seeking employment.
But Paris is not France. That fact is hardly realised in England, I think." "What," inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conversational heaviness of touch which is essentially British, "is the meaning of this disturbance?" Sidney Carew was enveloped in a perfect cloud of smoke. For a moment and a moment only the Vicomte's profound gaze rested on the Englishman's face. Mr.
It was a fairly handsome face, with eyes just large enough to be keen and quick without being dreamy. The slight fair moustache was not enough to hide the mouth, which was refined, and singularly immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, as he entered, quickly and comprehensively, and then turned his eyes towards Mr. Morgan.
He was rolling his pencil up to the top of his blotting-pad, and allowing it to come down again in accordance with the rules of gravity. This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; and after all, there was no great harm in it. Mr. Bodery was editor and proprietor of the Beacon.
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