“Come for me after the match. We can talk then.” With this Jeremy had to be content. Relieved of his presence, M. Ames summoned all her force to the rescue of her nerves, and astonished her opponent with a forty-four, steadily and carefully played. The match, which had originally been counted upon by a careful captain as a probable win for Old Central, was a tie, under the scoring system agreed upon. Dismal misgivings, meanwhile, had beset Jeremy Robson, the promising young reporter of The Record. Already he was, in his heart, on the defensive when, as he and Marcia turned out at the gate, she said: “Did you write the article about Eli Wade?” “Yes.” “I thought it must have been yours,” said her lips. The tone said, “I hoped it was not.” “That’s a good sign, for people to recognize my style. What did you think of it?” “It was clever.” There was no warmth in the tone. Rather a reluctant relinquishment of disbelief. “I’m glad you liked it.” “I did not like it. I hated it.” “Oh, that’s the personal view,” he said indulgently. “Perhaps.” “The Bellair Journal has offered me a job on the strength of it.” “Were you obliged to take that--what is the term--that assignment?” “A reporter takes what is handed out to him.” “I suppose so. That would be the danger. I should fear that.” “Fear what? I can’t imagine you fearing anything.” “I should fear getting into that habit of mind. Complaisant. Servile.” “That’s an ugly word, Marcia,” he said, flushing. “I am sorry. Perhaps there is a side to it that I do not understand. But surely, oh, surely, you need not have written it in that way!” “My dear girl! Personal feeling has no relation to newspaper work. I can’t juggle with facts because the man happens to be my friend. That is n’t honest.” “Is _this_ honest?” She held up the clipping which she took from her pocket. Jeremy quailed before the hurtness of her eyes, which was wonder more than reproach. “There is n’t a word in it,” he began, “that--” “There is not a thought in it that is not a cruel injustice.” “You’ve no right to say that.” “That is true. You remind me.” “Oh, Marcia,” he cried miserably. “Don’t take it that way. I’d have thrown up my job sooner than write it if I’d known that you’d feel it so.” “It does not matter about me. But you! How could you have done it! How could you have used his gentle, sweet, simple philosophy--his talks between friends in the shop--to make a mock of him?” “I did n’t. I swear I did n’t.” She put the clipping into his hand. Re-read, now, the words were self-damnatory. Jeremy groaned. “It has hurt him so terribly,” she said. “You’ve seen him?” “Yes. He has resigned his place on the School Board. Mr. Dolge advised him to get off before he was laughed off.” Jeremy stared at the words of his facile portraiture as if they had suddenly been informed with venom. “And he was so proud of it!” he muttered. “It was a large thing in his little life,” said the girl. “He feels disgraced.”