dness--and I know how great my need is. If I am to save my mother and
father from starvation, I must do something, and yet--" She paused and
shuddered. "Maybe it's all foolish and over-fastidious, but your
suggestion sets every nerve in me on edge. It's not very different after
all from your Sunday editor's suggestion--except in the spirit of its
making."

"Still, there is a difference," he assured her. "The footlights are
between and they give a sense of separation--and protection. Was
Herron--the Sunday man--particularly obnoxious? He's not human, you
know--he's just an efficient machine."

The fingers of the hand that lay on the table trembled a little and
Mary's eyes as they met his were clouded with distress.

"I hadn't supposed such things could be," she said. "He was very
impersonal about it all--and he grew enthusiastic as he outlined what he
wanted." Her words came slowly in a detached voice, though as she spoke
her delicate features responded to the shiver of disgust that ran
through her shoulders and at times her lips quivered. "He wanted me to
write it all--telling about every man abroad, especially with a title,
who had ever--been nice to me. He wanted pictures of me; all sorts of
pictures, in evening-gowns, in polo togs--in bathing-suits. He wanted a
chapter on how much my clothes used to cost--all my clothes. He said the
women would 'eat that up.'" She stopped and a wan smile crept into her
eyes, as she added, "I am using his words, Mr. Smitherton. But I could
stand that. I sat through it. I couldn't afford to lose any chance if it
was a chance I might decently take. But it was when he wanted his
picture, too, Jefferson's--"

She had to stop there for a moment and a mist came to her eyes which she
resolutely kept from overflowing in actual tears as she went on. "It was
when he wanted me to write down all his words and publish his letters
that I realized I couldn't fight even starvation that way."

"The damned brute!" muttered Smitherton. "The unspeakable beast!"

"To do him justice," admitted the girl generously, "I think he forgot,
in visualizing those pages which the women would 'eat up,' that it was
actually me he was talking to--it was just outlining work to a reporter.
He said something about 'sob-stuff,' too. To me, Mr. Smitherton, he
spoke of all these terrible, hideous things, that I lie awake
remembering, as 'sob-stuff'--and I knew that the worst of them were
times that made sobs impossible