You must appeal to
people's folly in order to get them to listen to your wisdom. Make your
paper a success first. You can make it a power afterwards."

"But," argued Peter, "there are already such papers--papers devoted to--to
that sort of thing, and to nothing else."

"At sixpence!" replied the practical Miss Ramsbotham. "I am thinking of
the lower middle-class woman who has twenty pounds a year to spend on
dress, and who takes twelve hours a day to think about it, poor creature.
My dear friend, there is a fortune in it. Think of the advertisements."

Poor Peter groaned--old Peter, the dreamer of dreams. But for thought of
Tommy! one day to be left alone to battle with a stony-eyed, deaf world,
Peter most assuredly would have risen in his wrath, would have said to
his distinguished-looking temptress, "Get thee behind me, Miss
Ramsbotham. My journalistic instinct whispers to me that your scheme,
judged by the mammon of unrighteousness, is good. It is a new departure.
Ten years hence half the London journals will have adopted it. There is
money in it. But what of that? Shall I for mere dross sell my editorial
soul, turn the temple of the Mighty Pen into a den of--of milliners! Good
morning, Miss Ramsbotham. I grieve for you. I grieve for you as for a
fellow-worker once inspired by devotion to a noble calling, who has
fallen from her high estate. Good morning, madam."

So Peter thought as he sat tattooing with his finger-tips upon the desk;
but only said--

"It would have to be well done."

"Everything would depend upon how it was done," agreed Miss Ramsbotham.
"Badly done, the idea would be wasted. You would be merely giving it
away to some other paper."

"Do you know of anyone?" queried Peter.

"I was thinking of myself," answered Miss Ramsbotham.

"I am sorry," said Peter Hope.

"Why?" demanded Miss Ramsbotham. "Don't you think I could do it?"

"I think," said Peter, "no one could do it better. I am sorry you should
wish to do it--that is all."

"I want to do it," replied Miss Ramsbotham, a note of doggedness in her
voice.

"How much do you propose to charge me?" Peter smiled.

"Nothing."

"My dear lady--"

"I could not in conscience," explained Miss Ramsbotham, "take payment
from both sides. I am going to make a good deal out of it. I am going
to make out of it at least three hundred a year, and they will be glad to
pay it."

"Who will?"

"The dressmakers. I shall be one of