The _Journal_ man, who was sweet on the "Advice to the Love-Lorn" editress, feverishly wrote the head-line, ALL FOR LOVE! "I needn't say to you," went on H. R., with a look that made the reporters respect his reticence, "that if I were an advertising man the publicity methods that I have introduced would have made me richer than I am. _What in hell would I do with more money?_ Answer me that!" The _Tribune_ man answered by turning pale. The others looked uneasy. When a well-dressed young man asks that question in New York there can be but two answers: Bloomingdale or Standard Oil. H. R. was going to marry a rich banker's only daughter. He was therefore no lunatic. H. R. was thenceforth regarded by the newspapers, and therefore by the public, as a fabulously rich man. This made him definitely Front Page. No other man ever became chronically that without committing murder or playing for the labor vote. XVIII All the morning papers spread themselves on the story and thereby gained the respect of those present at the meeting whose names were mentioned. Only one of the journals featured Grace Goodchild. Two dwelt strongly on the ten-thousand-dollar coupon and on the fact that the wealth of those present at the Granite Presbyterian Church aggregated $3,251,280,000. One pure-food featurer played up the ideal meal, and two the hope that at last charity would be discriminating. At 9.14 A.M. messages began to rain down on H. R. They came by livened youth, by telephone, and by secretaries. "Why," asked the Fitz-Marlton, "was not our chef considered enough? Why drag in others?" "How does it happen that our fifty-thousand-dollars-a-year Piccolini, who possesses eighteen decorations from crowned heads, is not one of the Public Menu Commission? Don't you want the best?" This came from the Vandergilt in writing that looked like ornamental spaghetti. "Please call at your earliest convenience and see what we give for $17.38 in the way of a substantial breakfast," laconically invited Herr Bummerlich of the Pastoral. Caspar Weinpusslacher called in person. He asked, reproachfully: "How it comes, Mr. Rutchers, that your best friend--" "Weinie," interrupted H. R., "this will cost you two thousand five hundred tickets for your thirty-cent meal. You are put down as one of the best three restaurateurs, together with Perry's and the Robespierre." "But say, Mr. Rutchers, two thousand five hundred--" began Weinie, trying to look angry at the extortion. He was rich now; he was even one of the sights of New York. "Three thousand! That's what your haggling has done," cut in H. R., with the cold determination that made him so formidable. "All right!" And Caspar ran out of the room. A terrible man, this. But Frau Weinpusslacher would be in society now. "I trust you will not be misled by _newspaper scientists_ into fool dietetics," wrote McAppen Dix, M.D., the hygiene expert of an afternoon paper.