o the contrary. Very sorry for myself, I
sought a hotel, and found in the hall a reporter who wished to know what
I thought of the country. Him I lured into conversation about his own
profession, and from him gained much that confirmed me in my views
of the grinding tyranny of that thing which they call the Press here.
Thus:--I--But you talk about interviewing people whether they like it or
not. Have you no bounds beyond which even your indecent curiosity must
not go?

HE--I haven't struck 'em yet. What do you think of interviewing a widow
two hours after her husband's death, to get her version of his life?

I--I think that is the work of a ghoul. Must the people have no privacy?

HE--There is no domestic privacy in America. If there was, what the
deuce would the papers do? See here. Some time ago I had an assignment
to write up the floral tributes when a prominent citizen had died.

I--Translate, please; I do not understand your pagan rites and
ceremonies.

HE--I was ordered by the office to describe the flowers, and wreaths,
and so on, that had been sent to a dead man's funeral. Well, I went
to the house. There was no one there to stop me, so I yanked the
tinkler--pulled the bell--and drifted into the room where the corpse
lay all among the roses and smilax. I whipped out my note-book and pawed
around among the floral tributes, turn-ing up the tickets on the wreaths
and seeing who had sent them. In the middle of this I heard some one
saying: "Please, oh, please!" behind me, and there stood the daughter of
the house, just bathed in tears--I--You unmitigated brute!

HE--Pretty much what I felt myself. "I'm very sorry, miss," I said,
"to intrude on the privacy of your grief. Trust me, I shall make it as
little painful as possible."

I--But by what conceivable right did you outrage--HE--Hold your horses.
I'm telling you. Well, she didn't want me in the house at all,
and between her sobs fairly waved me away. I had half the tributes
described, though, and the balance I did partly on the steps when the
stiff 'un came out, and partly in the church. The preacher gave the
sermon. That wasn't my assignment. I skipped about among the floral
tributes while he was talking. I could have made no excuse if I had gone
back to the office and said that a pretty girl's sobs had stopped me
obeying orders. I had to do it. What do you think of it all?

I (slowly)--Do you want to know?

HE (with his note-book ready)--Of course. How