Martin Embree took the proofs, and leaned forward under the lamp to read them. What Andrew Galpin had absorbed, almost in a glance, the politician plodded through with exasperating slowness. Impatience gave way to interest in the reporter’s mind, however, when he perceived that his reader was perusing the galley a second time over. “Well?” he inquired, as Embree raised his head. The Senator’s fine smile enveloped him. “Frankly, it would n’t do.” “What’s wrong?” “Too much fervor.” “It’s American fervor.” “True. But it’s exclusively American. ‘All the rest of you not born Americans, be damned!’ It’s--well--uncharitable.” The writer’s color deepened. “You mean it’s unfair.” “Not intentionally. But there are phrases in there that sneer.” “They could be edited out.” “Not so easily. I don’t think your writing would be easy to edit, Mr. Robson. It hangs together pretty tight. But, so far as this is concerned, I can plead ‘Not guilty’ to being an accomplice. I’m sure Mr. Farley would never have let it get into print.” “It was all set up.” “But not OK’d, I assume. You see, Mr. Robson, one must live among our Germans to understand them. They’re the best people in the world and the highest-minded citizens. Germany is n’t a nation to them. It’s a sentiment. It’s El Dorado. It’s music and poetry and art and literature--and a fairy-land. Lay a profane hand on it, and they’re as sensitive as children, and as sulky. But at heart they’re just as sound Americans as you or I, and in politics they’re always for the right and clean and progressive thing. All they need is to be humored in their harmless and rather silly sentimentalism. You see, I’m talking to you quite frankly.” “And I appreciate it, Senator.” “Well, I appreciate having seen this.” Embree tapped the proof with the back of his finger. “Apart from the substance of it, I’m interested. I’m mightily interested.” Jeremy Robson met his direct, intent gaze and waited. “If I know anything about writing, you can write. There’s stuff in this. It’s a real picture. Perhaps there was a touch of inspiration, too.” His face became sunny again with its conquering smile. “Did you know Miss Ames?” “Not before the interview with her.” To his annoyance Jeremy Robson felt his face grow hot. Had he written _that_ between the lines, too? “No? A gallant figure. Young America; the imperishable spirit. Do you think you could write like that--without special inspiration?” he demanded abruptly. “It’s the best story I’ve done yet. But I can beat it, when I’ve had more experience.” “Then this town is going to be too small for you.” There was no tone of patronage or flattery in the rich, even voice. “Were you thinking of staying here?” “Until I learn the ropes. I want to own a pa--” Jeremy Robson stopped short. Why should he be confiding his ambitions to this stranger, to whom he owed nothing, unless an injury?