Clippings, clippings, clippings. As Roger turned over his morning mail, in spite of himself he grew absorbed. What a change in the world of literature. What a host of names of scribblers, not authors but just writers, not only men but women too, novelists and dramatists, poets and muckrakers all jumbled in together, each one of them straining for a place. And the actors and the actresses, the musicians and the lecturers, each with his press agent and avid for publicity, "fame!" And here were society women, from New York and other cities, all eager for press notices of social affairs they had given or managed, charity work they had conducted, suffrage speeches they had made. Half the women in the land were fairly talking their heads off, it seemed. Some had been on his lists for years. They married and wanted to hear what was said in the papers about their weddings, they quarreled and got divorces and still sent here for clippings, they died and still their relatives wrote in for the funeral notices. And even death was commercialized. A maker of monuments wanted news "of all people of large means, dead or dangerously ill, in the State of Pennsylvania." Here were demands from charity bodies, hospitals and colleges, from clergymen with an anxious eye on the Monday morning papers. And here was an anarchist millionaire! And here was an insane asylum wanting to see itself in print! With a grim smile on his heavy visage, Roger stared out of his window. Slowly the smile faded, a wistful look came on his face. "Who'll take my business when I'm gone?" If his small son had only lived, with what new zest and vigor it might have been made to grow and expand. If only his son had been here by his side.... CHAPTER IX DEBORAH needed rest, he thought, for the bright attractive face of his daughter was looking rather pale of late, and the birthmark on her forehead showed a faint thin line of red. One night at dinner, watching her, he wondered what was on her mind. She had come in late, and though several times she had made an effort to keep up the conversation, her cheeks were almost colorless and more than once in her deepset eyes came a flash of pain that startled him. "Look here. What's the matter with you?" he asked. Deborah looked up quickly. "I'd rather not talk about it, dad--" "Very well," he answered. And with a slight hesitation, "But I think I know the trouble," he said. "And perhaps some other time--when you do feel like talking--" He stopped, for on her wide sensitive lips he saw a twitch of amusement. "What do you think is the trouble?" she asked. And Roger looked at her squarely. "Loneliness," he answered. "Why?" she asked him. "Well, there's Edith's baby--and Laura getting married--" "I see--and so I'm lonely for a family of my own. But you're forgetting my school," she said. "Yes, yes, I know," he retorted. "But that's not at all the same. Interesting work, no doubt, but--well, it isn't personal."