Marcia’s delicate mouth drooped exaggeratedly. “If I must be a sister to you,” she murmured, “that is surely no reason why we should not meet occasionally.” “Oh, I’ll come!” said Jem wildly. “I’d walk from here to New York just to see you in the street, and you know it.” “Jem!” she said with a change of tone. Her fingers just touched his hand lightly. “It is a shame to tease you. But your Spartan rôle is such a temptation!” Madam Taylor, though she adored Marcia, flatly declined to invite the editor of The Guardian. “That young mud-wasp” she termed him, and advised the girl to beware of his specious claims to fairness and rectitude. There would be plenty of other young men, far better worth meeting, at her tea than young Robson. It was not any other young man, however, whom the lovely Miss Ames selected for her special attention at the tea, but, vastly to his surprise and not a little to his gratification, Mr. Montrose Clark. There was nothing of the gallant about the public utilitarian; he was the highly correct head of a devoted family. But even in such, the aesthetic sense remains, and Mr. Clark was conscious of a distinct interest arising from his being selected for the special ministrations of the most attractive young woman in Fenchester. When she had duly hemmed him into the corner of an arbor with an impregnable fortification of Dresden and selected viands, he made the start himself. “I surrender,” he announced with ponderous playfulness. “What do you want of me?” “How unkind of you, Mr. Clark! I was about to try my craftiest wiles upon you,” returned Miss Ames regretfully. “Then it’s a subscription. I withdraw the white flag. I’ll fight.” “Please! That is exactly what I do not wish you to do. I wish you to make peace.” “Have I a quarrel with you?” “Not yet. With some friends of mine. With The Guardian.” The public utilitarian’s expression changed; became more impersonal and observant. “Young Robson,” he remarked. “He’s been talking to you.” “No. It was Mr. Galpin that told me about it.” “You’re his emissary?” “Oh, no! You must not suppose that. I come to you quite of my own accord.” “Why this extreme interest in The Guardian, Miss Ames?” “Because I--There is a reason for--Circumstances--” “Over which you have no control,” suggested her vis-à-vis. “Over which I have no control,” she accepted, and her hand went to her throat--(Mr. Montrose Clark, seeing the swift color pulse into her face, discarded Andrew Galpin from consideration and came back to Jeremy Robson and wondered whether that pernicious journalist knew how lucky he was), “have given me a--an interest, a responsibility--” Marcia Ames was experiencing unwonted difficulties in explaining what was perhaps not fundamentally clear to herself. “I see,” answered the magnate mendaciously. “If you saw as I see,” she retorted earnestly, “you would not be opposing and trying to ruin The Guardian.”