“I never thought of such a thing,” Mr. Cameron said. He stared at William, digesting the new and remarkable idea. “There are already plenty of newspapers.”
“Not the kind I mean,” William said.
“What kind do you mean?” Mr. Cameron asked. “I thought I knew about every kind there was.”
“I suppose you do, sir,” William said. “What I am thinking of, though, is new for America. I got the idea from England — and a little bit, perhaps, from the New York World, and then the Journal. But I didn’t think of doing anything myself until I began to hear about Alfred Harmsworth in England. Have you seen his papers, sir?”
“No,” Mr. Cameron said. “When I’m in London I always read the Times—maybe look at the Illustrated Times on the side.”
“My paper,” William said, as if it already existed, “is what’s called tabloid size and it is to have everything in it that can interest the masses. It won’t be for people like you, Mr. Cameron. It will have plenty of pictures. I’ve noticed even in college that most of the men don’t really read much but they will always look at pictures.”
“I hope you don’t mean yellow journalism,” Mr. Cameron said severely.
“No, I don’t,” William said. “I hope I can do something more subtle than that.” He paused and then went on thoughtfully, his eyes on the patterned carpet. “I thought, if you approved, I would talk with Jeremy about it and some day we might go in on it together.”
Mr. Cameron was pleased. It might be the very thing for Jeremy, easy work, sitting behind a desk. He had often wondered what to do with his fragile son, but he was too prudent to show approval. “Well, it would depend on what Jeremy wants. Newspapers cost a lot of money to start.”
William was calm. “That’s why I want to get rich.” He was too wise to repeat what his mother had often told him, even before he went to Chefoo. His mother had sown in him early the seeds of common sense. “You can’t have but so many friends,” she had said. “And each friend ought to count for something.” He had seen the folly of useless friends in the English school; his speaking acquaintance there with the British Ambassador’s son had served him more usefully than the horde of missionaries’ children.
At college he had selected from among Jeremy’s friends three whom he was transferring to himself, Blayne Parker, Seth James, and Martin Rosvaine. Blayne William still doubted because he was a poet, and Jeremy supplied to him something that William knew was not in himself. Seth and Martin he was resolved to keep. Yet there was no reason why the five of them, Jeremy included, should not stay together after college. Seth’s father alone could, if he would, supply the capital they would need. Meanwhile he was getting into their clubs.
“Got it all figured out, eh?” Mr. Cameron said. A look of admiration came over his face, mingled with reluctance. If Jeremy had been this sort of a fellow, he would have got him into the Stores. Invitation was on the tip of his tongue. “How would you like—” He swallowed the words. William would be too smart, maybe, ten years from now when he himself was getting to be an old man. He might not be able to cope with that new young smartness in case it opposed him. It was all right to give young men a chance, but not the whole chance. On the other hand, William might be the making of the Stores, at the time when he needed somebody. If the boy married Candy, for example, it would be almost as good as though he were born into the family. This would take time to think out. He leaned back and crossed his hands on the small paunch that hung incongruously on his lean frame. “When the time comes,” he said dreamily, “I might be able to do something myself, William. Only might, that is. I can’t tell from year to year, government being what it is in this country.”
William rose. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Mr. Cameron,” he said in a firm and resonant voice. “I’m sure I can stand on my own feet.” It was entirely the proper answer, although he felt that the time would come when he would need Mr. Cameron. Far better to owe money to Mr. Cameron than to the father of Seth James.
Before Mr. Cameron could reply, the door opened and Candace came in looking, her father thought fondly, like the morning star. She was all in rose and silver and wrapped in soft spring furs of white fox. Her cheeks were pink with the wind, for she had insisted on having the carriage windows open, and her yellow hair was curled about her ears and feathered over her forehead.
“Why have you two hidden yourselves away here?” she demanded. “Mother says please come out at once and be public. We have callers.”
“We’ve been talking business,” Mr. Cameron said. It was his instinctive reply to any demands from women.
“Nonsense,” Candace said. “William hasn’t any business.”
“He has an interesting idea,” Mr. Cameron said, fitting the tips of his fingers together. “A very interesting idea.”
Then he got an idea himself. He rose and made haste with his slow step toward the door. “I’ll go, just to please your mother. William doesn’t have to be bothered with our friends unless he wants to. I’ll bet it’s the Cordies, anyway.”
“It is,” Candace said, with dimples.
“Don’t you come, William,” Mr. Cameron said. “They won’t remember you next time they see you, anyway.”
Thus he left these two young members of his society together, and went his way inwardly pleased. Candace could be trusted. She wouldn’t let even her own husband do the family any damage. He was long used to eating his cake and having it too. The secret of such maneuvering had laid the foundation of his fortune — that and the resolute ignoring of the misfortunes of others. Maybe when the time came he would help William. He had a lot of loose cash he didn’t know what to do with.
Left alone with Candace, William said nothing and she sat down in the chair where her father had been sitting, threw off her fur jacket, and lifted her small flowered hat from her head.
“What have you two been talking about?” she asked.
“Your father asked me what I wanted to do after I finished college and I said start a newspaper,” William replied.
Her very clear blue eyes were sweetly upon him. “And why a newspaper?”
William shrugged his handsome shoulders. “Why does one do anything except because it is what one wants to do?”
“No, William, don’t run around the corner. Why do you feel so inferior to everybody?”
She had thrust a point into his heart. His blood rushed into his face and he was careful not to look at her.
“Do I feel inferior?” His usually careful voice was dangerously careless.
“Don’t you?” she demanded.
“I really don’t know myself.”
She refused the responsibility of special knowledge. “Anybody can see that you never come straight out with answers. You always think what to say.”
“I suppose that is because I have never lived much in America,” he replied. Though he despised his China, he often found it convenient to take refuge there. It gave him a reason, faintly romantic, for his difference from ordinary people.
“You mean the Chinese don’t answer honestly?” she asked.
“I think they prefer to answer correctly,” he said.
“But honesty is always right.”
“Is it?” he asked with wisdom gentle and superior.
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
“But you must think,” she cried with soft impatience.
“I don’t always know what to think,” he replied. “I guess my way a good deal of the time. I meet people every day whom I cannot understand. I have no experience that would help me.”