It was pathetic to watch her. One morning she telephoned me to come in post-haste. She had been struck with a brilliant idea; she would finance another of the trans-Atlantic flights. It mattered little to her that the movie queen who was to pilot the plane had just about two hours’ flying time to her credit. Mrs. Breese did get a paragraph or two on the event before its obvious impracticability was discovered, and she had the satisfaction of viewing her picture and that of the movie actress adorning a lurid half-page in one of the tabloids. During the following few weeks she made the most startling observations on short skirts, necking, companionate marriage and life beyond the grave--the four staples of sob-sister interviews. But the editors were tired of Mrs. Breese. A certain staleness clung to the name. Even the crowds in the night clubs no longer turned to stare when she descended upon them for a few moments. So one morning she surrendered. I saw that surrender. Several days before, her social secretary had resigned. He--Mrs. Breese always employed male secretaries--said rather brusquely that his position had become ignominious. He was a rather effeminate young man, and had served several distinguished families. Mrs. Breese, who was not without humor despite her weaknesses, said she really had no further use for a social secretary since society had dropped her. But she did need someone, to quote her words, “who can keep me in touch with public opinion. I’m so interested in what people are really thinking. I mean, the plain people.” It was the most roundabout way of describing a press-agent that I had heard in some time. I said that there were young ladies who would undoubtedly suit her. But she shook her head vigorously. No. She had already made her choice. And that choice, I discovered to my amazement, was none other than myself. I was not flattered. There was something distinctly unpalatable in being Mrs. Breese’s amanuensis. I did not mind glorifying a milk company or a portrait painter or even an oil promoter, but press-agent to a divorcée was not yet officially recognized as altogether legitimate. So I declined with thanks. But Mrs. Breese persisted. She named a salary which was double that I had been receiving. She sketched a tempting itinerary on the yacht _Mary Rose_ and, perhaps, knowing my weakness, she outlined a routine of labor that even for me would be child’s play. Still I refused. But a week later circumstances altered my decision. A new city editor who had assigned me to travel as far as the subway penetrates discovered through some mischance that I had used the telephone instead and consumed the allotted time and some excellent Chianti in a neighborhood speakeasy. I received two weeks’ salary and a cold dismissal. I went searching for work on the papers without success and soon I could see that the manager of the minor hotel at which I was stopping was beginning to regard me as a problem.