The quality was still there when he read it over on the following day. Intent upon his sunshine-scattering he sent an early proof to “M. Ames.” He felt, on the whole, that he had been, if not unjustly, at least untenderly treated. Overnight he had been able to persuade himself that the Wade sketch represented a fine type of loyalty to profession rising triumphant above personal feelings. All that was needed to reestablish him firmly in the conviction of righteousness, was Marcia’s appreciation of his golf-story. He went to the Pritchard house to receive it. Marcia was not there. She had gone for a few days’ visit at the Magnus Laurens’ country place. Jeremy sent a hasty, reproachful and alarmed note after her. Why had she left without a word? What did it all mean? When was she coming back? When could he see her and explain? As a composition it was distinctly below standard for the rising young star of The Record. But at least it could boast the highly-prized quality of heart-interest. Jeremy called again at the hospital to see Andrew Galpin. That battered warrior received him with immitigable cheerfulness. “Ay-ah,” he explained. “Something busted inside the eye. It ain’t as bad as they thought. They’re going to save quite a glimmer of sight in it, and ‘my right eye is a good little eye,”’ he chanted. “Back on the job in a week or so.” Jeremy, craving solace, asked whether his friend had seen the Eli Wade story; then, remembering his disability, corrected himself hastily. “Sure I saw it. Or had it seen for me. I made ’em read me both papers from end to end. That was a crackajack story. You keep on like this, young fellow, and Fenchester ’ll be too small to hold you.” “I’m afraid it hurt Eli Wade’s feelings,” said the visitor hesitantly. “Did he say anything to you about it?” “Ay-ah. He spoke of it.” “What did he say?” “We-ell; he said--Sure you want to know?” Jeremy nodded. “He said, ‘I’d never have believed it from the way he wears his shoes.’ Like the poor old nut, ain’t it?” “Andy, was the story so rotten?” “I just told you it was a crackajack piece of work.” “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about my doing it at all.” “It was your assignment, was n’t it?” “Certainly, it was,” assented Jeremy, comforted and justified. “I had to take it or quit my job, did n’t I?” “Oh, I guess you’re stronger than that on The Record.” “What would you have done in my place?” “Me? Oh, I’m a reporter. I reckon I’d have done the story.” But there was no conviction in Galpin’s tone. Jeremy wished he could have seen the bandaged eyes. He mistrusted that they would have avoided his. “That’s part of the business,” he declared, self-defensively. “That’s the hell of the business,” said Andrew Galpin. Jeremy left the hospital feeling that Marcia Ames and Andrew Galpin had said much the same thing to him about his article, in widely different terms.