After a judiciously measured pause he spoke again: "Good afternoon. This is Mr. Onthemaker speaking. Quite well, thank you. I hope you are the same!... That's good!... Yes, miss, I saw him this morning. The papers wish to publish your photograph.... I'm sorry, but they say they simply must!... I am at La Touche's studio.... They doubtless do not do you justice, but they are the best ever taken of you--... No, I don't think they can wait for new ones.... One moment, please--" He held his hand in front of the transmitter so she couldn't hear him say to La Touche: "She wants some new ones." "To-morrow at two," said La Touche. "Give us the old ones now," chorused the reporters. "We'll publish the new ones for the wedding." "I am sorry"--Max again spoke into the telephone--"but they say they want some now. They'll use the others later.... Which one?... The one Mr. Rutgers likes?... Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much." Foreseeing unintelligent incredulity, Mr. Onthemaker did not hang up the receiver. It was just as well, for the cautious La Touche said, "I want to talk to her." "Certainly," said Max, and hastily rose. "Miss Goodchild," said the photographer, respectfully, "will it be all right if I let the reporters have--" "Give him the one Mr. Rutgers likes," came in a sweet voice, without the slightest trace of Yiddish or catarrh. They would be wonderful linguists, if they didn't always begin by, "Say, listen." "Which one is that?" "The one he likes. And please send the bill to me, not to papa," with the accent properly on the last syllable. "There will be no charge, Miss Goodchild. Thank you. I only wished to make sure you approved." La Touche rose and, turning to the friendly reporters, asked, wrathfully, "How in blazes do I know which is the one Mr. Rutgers liked?" "Let us pick it out," said one reporter. He wore his hair long. "Any one will do," said another, considerately. "I think I know which it is," said Barrett, taking pity on the photographer. To Mr. Onthemaker he whispered, "Max, you're a second H. R." "I try to be," modestly said Sam. And so the newspapers published the official preference of the lucky man. They published it because she was going to marry H. R. That same morning Mr. Goodchild called up the city editors. He was so stupid that he was angry. He threatened criminal action and also denied the engagement. Rutgers was only a discharged clerk who had worked in his bank. He had been annoying his daughter, but he, Mr. Goodchild, would take steps to put an end to further persecution. Rutgers would not be allowed to call. He had, Mr. Goodchild admitted, called--uninvited. Had a man no privacy in New York? What was the matter with the police? What was he paying taxes for--to be annoyed by insane adventurers and damned reporters? He didn't want any impertinence. If they didn't print the denial of the engagement and the facts he would put the matter in his lawyer's hands.