vertising.
It was not uncommon to see "Sandwich-board Maker, approved by the
S. A. S. A.," in signs in various parts of the city. A new industry!

XXVI

In the mean time Grace was in Philadelphia. She had gone there for
sundry reasons. The telephone calls told on her nerves. Mr. Goodchild
had to install a new one, the number of which was not printed in the
Directory but confided to intimate friends. Requests for autographs,
interviews, money, food, advice, name of soap habitually used,
permission to name massage ointments and face lotions after her,
contributions to magazines, and ten thousand other things had been
coming in by mail or were made in person by friends and strangers until
Grace, in desperation, decided to go on a visit to Philadelphia. She
craved peace.

Ruth Fiddle had long urged her to come. Grace had agreed to be one of
her bridesmaids in June and Ruth naturally wished to discuss marriage,
generally and particularly.

Ruth delightedly met Grace at the station. Two young men were with her.
One was her fiance. The other was a very nice chap who had blood,
brains, and boodle. His ancestors had been William Penn's grandfather's
landlords in Bristol, England, and he himself had once written a story
which he had sent to the _Saturday Evening Post_. His father was in
coal, railroads, and fire insurance.

They decided to adjourn to the Fairview-Hartford for luncheon. Before so
doing they talked.

Ruth asked a thousand excited questions about the Hunger Feast, fame,
and the Rutgers Roll. Grace answered, and then confided to Ruth her iron
resolve never to marry H. R. She admitted that he was as great as the
papers said, even greater, and, besides, good-looking. But her
determination was inflexible.

Ruth, to show she approved, told Grace that Monty--the writer--was her
fiance's chum and African hunting-companion. Monty himself told Miss
Goodchild that there was a good story in the whole affair. In fact, two
stories. In both of them the heroine--he looked at her and nodded his
head convincingly. "Drawn from life," he added. "Of course I'll have to
know you--I mean, the heroine--better. But don't you think she'd make a
great one?"

She wasn't thrilled a bit. She was not even politely interested. What
was such talk, Grace impartially asked herself, to one who had been
madly cheered by thousands?

Still, he was a nice boy, not so consciously clever as New-Yorkers who
chose to regard themselves as