od for, in politics--or in other ways. We were
married in Europe, and a few months afterward we came to live here.
People were already beginning to talk about the _Radiator_. My husband,
on leaving college, had bought it with some money an old uncle had left
him, and the public at first was merely curious to see what an
ambitious, stirring young man without any experience of journalism was
going to make out of his experiment. They found first of all that he
was going to make a great deal of money out of it. I found that out
too. I was so happy in other ways that it didn't make much difference
at first; though it was pleasant to be able to help my mother, to be
generous and charitable, to live in a nice house, and wear the handsome
gowns he liked to see me in. But still it didn't really count--it
counted so little that when, one day, I learned what the _Radiator_
was, I would have gone out into the streets barefooted rather than live
another hour on the money it brought in...." Her voice sank, and she
paused to steady it. The girl at her side did not speak or move. "I
shall never forget that day," she began again. "The paper had stripped
bare some family scandal--some miserable bleeding secret that a dozen
unhappy people had been struggling to keep out of print--that _would_
have been kept out if my husband had not--Oh, you must guess the rest!
I can't go on!"

She felt a hand on hers. "You mustn't go on, Mrs. Quentin," the girl
whispered.

"Yes, I must--I must! You must be made to understand." She drew a deep
breath. "My husband was not like Alan. When he found out how I felt
about it he was surprised at first--but gradually he began to see--or
at least I fancied he saw--the hatefulness of it. At any rate he saw
how I suffered, and he offered to give up the whole thing--to sell the
paper. It couldn't be done all of a sudden, of course--he made me see
that--for he had put all his money in it, and he had no special
aptitude for any other kind of work. He was a born journalist--like
Alan. It was a great sacrifice for him to give up the paper, but he
promised to do it--in time--when a good opportunity offered. Meanwhile,
of course, he wanted to build it up, to increase the circulation--and
to do that he had to keep on in the same way--he made that clear to me.
I saw that we were in a vicious circle. The paper, to sell well, had to
be made more and more detestable and disgraceful. At first I
rebelled--but somehow--I can't