Mrs. Lawton had gone through her ordeal with Mr. Dean very quietly; she heard his explanation—that is, as far as anything that might be said could be called such, but its full meaning had not yet dawned upon her; and being utterly worn out she allowed herself to be tucked up on the lounge in Brooke’s room, where she fell into an exhausted sleep, under the soothing touch of her daughter’s fingers. Lucy Dean, coming in during the late afternoon, for she had remained with her friend since the first and had only gone out for a walk, found Brooke sitting bolt upright in her father’s chair in the den, a newspaper that rested on the desk crumpled in one hand, and a dangerous light in her eyes. “Have you seen this?” she asked Lucy, in a voice that was fairly hoarse from suppression, as she pointed to the insinuating article which bore the double significance of being semi-editorial in form,—“and appearing in the _Daily Forum_, too, the paper that father always thought the most sound and moderate. Oh, how I wish that I could get hold of some one and make them believe at least that father is truly ill and knows absolutely no one, not even mother and me!” “Brooke Lawton, if you are going to read all the papers say or hint about your affairs during the next few weeks, you will give me a chance to look up a sanatorium, with nice cool bars for you to snub your nose against, which won’t improve its shape. Don’t read the papers; if the things aren’t true, why bother, and if some of them are, what are you going to do about it?” Lucy had been astonishingly quiet and sympathetic for nearly twenty-four hours, but a long walk in the fresh air had raised her indomitable animal spirits to the top again, and though they sometimes made Brooke catch her breath and gasp, like too crude a stimulant, they were under the circumstances probably the best counterbalance and tonic she could have had. “Of course,” Lucy continued, “if it was a purely social affair, I could get Charlie Ashton to stuff the papers to the limit. If he is my cousin, I must say that he managed to syndicate the account of the Parkses’ musicale most adroitly (of course, though, you didn’t read that yesterday). The main description—gowns and all that—was the same in each, but Charlie contrived to let each reporter have some extra item that fitted his paper specially. A little more about the music for one, details of the picture gallery for another, the brand of champagne used for a third, upholstery for a fourth, and so on. Come to think of it, I remember something about his saying that a reporter on the _Daily Forum_ was a chum of his at Harvard. I might try and see what Charlie can do, but I’m afraid, as far as serious news goes, even his chum wouldn’t swallow him.” “Oh, Lucy, Lucy! can’t you see it is not _stuffing_ and _swallowing_ that I want, but for people to know that father is really ill and not shamming—that we are not all combining in a dreadful game of deceit?”