It was Carleton of the Daily Dispatch group who had first divined her possibilities. With a swift glance on his way through, he had picked her out from a line of depressed-looking men and women ranged against the wall of the dark entrance passage; and with a snap of his fingers had beckoned to her to follow him. Striding in front of her up to his room, he had pointed to a chair and had left her sitting there for three-quarters of an hour, while he held discussion with a stream of subordinates, managers and editors of departments, who entered and departed one after another, evidently in pre-arranged order. All of them spoke rapidly, without ever digressing by a single word from the point, giving her the impression of their speeches having been rehearsed beforehand. “One of these days somebody will start a Society for the Reformation of the Press,” thought Flossie. “I wonder how the papers will take it?”!

The whole man had changed. The eyes had a timid pleading in them. “Yes, but when Phillips does speak, he speaks to the whole country,” retorted Joan.

“I will stay with her for a little while,” she said. “Till I feel there is no more need. Then I must get back to work.” “They must have felt sure you could act,” said Joan. “Next time it will be a clean offer.” “How did he feel?” he asked her, leaning forward.