sallow persons of fashion, with dashing signatures, looked at you from retouched eyes and little windows of plush, I was left to wait long enough to feel in the air of the house a hushed vibration of disaster. When our young lady came in she was very pale, and her eyes too had been retouched.
"Something horrid has happened," I immediately said; and having really, all along, but half believed in her mother's meagre permission, I risked with an unguarded groan the introduction of Mrs. Stannace's name.
"Yes, she has made a dreadful scene; she insists on our putting it off again. We re very unhappy: poor Ray has been turned off." Her tears began to flow again.
I had such a good conscience that I stared. "Turned off what?"
"Why, his paper of course. The Beacon has given him what he calls the sack. They don't like his letters—they're not the sort of thing they want."
My blankness could only deepen. "Then what sort of thing do they want?"
"Something more chatty."
"More?" I cried, aghast.
"More gossipy, more personal. They want 'journalism.' They want tremendous trash."
"Why, that's just what his letters have been!" I broke out.
This was strong, and I caught myself up, but the girl offered me the pardon of a beautiful wan smile. "So Ray himself declares. He says he has stooped so low."
"Very well—he must stoop lower. He must keep the place."
"He can't!" poor Maud wailed. "He says he has tried all he knows, has been abject, has gone on all fours, and that if they don t like that"
