So Thyrsis went in, like a lamb to the slaughter. He was new to interviews, and he yielded to the graces of the friendly and sympathetic lady. Yes, he would be glad to tell about his book; and about where and how he had written it, and all the hopes he had based upon it. “And your wife tells me you’ve just been married!” said the lady, with a winning smile, and she proceeded to question him about this. They had become good friends by that time, and Thyrsis told her many things that he would not have told save to a charming lady. And then she asked for his picture, explaining that she could give so much more space to the “story” if she had one. And then she begged for a picture of Corydon, and was deeply hurt that she could not have it. She prolonged the interview for an hour or so, and came back again and again in the effort to get this picture of Corydon. Finally she rose to go; but out in the hall, as she was bidding them good-bye, she suddenly exclaimed that she had left her gloves, and went back and got them, and then hurried away. And it was not until an hour or two later that Thyrsis made the horrible discovery that the photograph of Corydon which had stood upon his bureau was standing upon his bureau no longer! So next morning, there were their two photographs upon the second page of the ‘Morning Howl’, and a two-column headline: “YOUTHFUL GENIUS OFFERS HIMSELF FOR SALE!” Thyrsis rushed through this article, writhing with horror and dismay. The woman had made him into what they called a “human interest” feature. There was very little about his book, but there was much about the picturesque circumstances under which he had written it. There was a description of their personal appearance--of Corydon’s sweet face and soulful black eyes, and of his broad forehead and sensitive lips. There was also a complete description of their domestic _ménage_, including the chafing-dish and the odor of lamb-chops. There was a highly diverting account of how they had “eloped” with only eight dollars in the world; together with all the agonies of their parents, as imagined by the sympathetic lady. They had been butchered to make a holiday for the readers of a yellow journal! “This is a wonderfully interesting world,” the paper seemed to say--“well worth the penny it costs to read about it! Here on the first page is Antonio Petronelli, who cut up his sweetheart with a butcher-knife, and packed her in a trunk. And here are seven people burned in a tenement-house; and an interview with Shrike, the plunger, who made three millions out of the wheat-corner. But most diverting of all are these two little cherubs who ran away and got married, and now want the world to support them while they write masterpieces of literature!”