There was
only a steady pressing forward--an unceasing, unwearying attention to his
own gain.
In those days news travelled slowly, and the personal had not yet taken
precedence in journalism. In the anxiety for the State, the Individual
was apt to be overlooked. Seymour Michael counted on six months of
oblivion at the least--he hoped for more, but with characteristic caution
acted always in anticipation of the worst.
He had scarcely thrown the newspaper aside when a comrade entered the
bungalow carrying another copy of the same journal.
"I say, Michael," exclaimed this man, "do you see that you're put in
among the killed?"
"Yes," replied Seymour Michael, without haste, without hesitation. "I
have already written to contradict it. Not that there is any one to care
whether I am dead or alive. But it might do me harm in Leadenhall Street.
I can't afford to be dead even for a week when so much promotion is going
forward."
This was artistic. Most of us forget to preserve our own characteristics
in diverging from the truth.
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