"Masters' Newspaper" had been the talk of the journalistic
world for months. He had picked his staff and he now awaited only the
presses he had ordered that morning from New York.
Madeleine had sighed as she listened to him dilate upon an active
brilliant future in which she had no place, but she was in tune with
him always and she could only be happy with him now. Moreover, it was
an additional safeguard. He would be too busy for dreams and human
longings. As for herself she would go along somehow. Tears, after
all, were a wonderful solace. Fear had driven her down a light
romantic by-way of her nature. Even if days passed without a glimpse
of him she could dwell on the pleasant thought that he was not far
away, and now and then they would take a long walk together.
The door opened and Dr. Talbot entered. His face was no longer
purple. It was sallow and drawn. Her hands trailed off the keys, her
arms fell limply. Not even during an epidemic, when he found little
time for sleep, had his round face lost its ruddy brightness, his
black eyes their look of jovial good-fellowship, his mouth its
amiable cynicism.
"Something has happened," she said faintly. "What is it?"
"Would you mind sitting here?" He fell heavily into a chair and
motioned to one opposite.
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