"Don't worry," he winked profoundly. "There'll be money enough for your trip to Europe. A column and a half won't hurt us." "But why do you let her do it? What's the answer?" "As simple as A B C. I'm surprised you don't see it yourself. The little lady's bugs on sweat-shops. And sweat-shops don't advertise. See? As long as she sticks to the East Side, she can damn any one she likes to. And as for Socialism--the girls don't vote." "It was stupid of me not to understand," Mrs. Karner said as she went on up to her room. "Goodnight--Cynic." She never realized how much her jibes stung her husband. "Damn the women," he muttered. "She married me for my money and don't like the way I earn it." Mr. Karner had loved his wife more than anything--except the pleasure of cutting a figure in the world. His paper made him a power in the community. Presidential candidates bid for his support. No one had dared to blackball him when he had recently put up his name at a club which was supposed to be composed of gentlemen. But his wife neither respected nor feared him. He stood gloomily in the hallway--the fumes of champagne making things oscillate gently--wondering whether he dared to go to her room. He decided he was afraid, and, calling for his hat and coat, went out. But to the other people who were asking the same question which Mrs. Karner had put to her husband, no answer was given. Isadore's daily amazement at Yetta's outspoken Socialism gradually grew into a conviction that he had been wrong. He wrote her a loyal letter of apology, and Yetta in a condescending reply forgave him. But trouble came as Christmas was approaching. Some ladies from the Woman's Consumers' League called on Yetta, and, after praising her work for factory women, tried to enlist her aid in the cause of the department-store girls, who are so shamefully overworked in the season of holiday shopping. They wanted her to speak at a mass meeting. It was not hard to interest Yetta in such a cause. "Give me some of the facts," she said, after she had promised to speak, "and I'll run some stories about it in _The Star_." But her first department-store article did not come out. It had been "killed" in favor of a receipt for preserving the gloss on finger-nails. A copy-reader, being wise in newspaper business and anxious to gain favor, had run to the advertising manager with the proof. The advertising manager had rushed angrily to Mr. Brace. Brace had gone to Mr. Karner. Mr. Karner had thrown it into the wastepaper basket and suggested the finger-nail story. When Yetta called up Mr. Brace about it, she found him inclined to treat the matter as a joke. "After all," he laughed, "you know there are limits. You can't take a man's money for advertisement on one page and spit in his eye on another. There is plenty of work for your scalping knife among people who don't advertise."