“Yes. He is a newspaper man. He’s on the _Trumpet_, you know, and has been wonderfully successful in some way or other. He writes awfully bright things for the editorial page. Percy-Bartlett says that it is a most unusual thing for a man as young as Richard Stoughton to jump at a bound into such a prominent position.” “A newspaper man. Isn’t that amusing! I never met one before.” “Well,” commented the musician, turning around and drumming softly on the piano, “there is one thing to be said about them; they have to be bright, or they couldn’t be newspaper men.” “That is a very sweeping assertion,” remarked Gertrude, smiling in amusement. “I wonder if it applies to newspaper women.” “I don’t know; I never met one,” answered Mrs. Percy-Bartlett coldly. “But tell me,” persisted Gertrude, her blue eyes dark with mischief; “what are you going to do with him?” Almost unconsciously Mrs. Percy-Bartlett began to play the air she had composed to Heine’s poem on the pine-tree that dreamed of the palm. Suddenly she ceased playing, and gazed earnestly at Gertrude. “I don’t know,” she said at length, and the roguish light died out of Gertrude’s eyes. “I don’t understand you, Harriet,” she said very seriously. “You don’t mean that--that”-- “I mean nothing,” cried Mrs. Percy-Bartlett rather feverishly, turning to the piano and playing a few bars of the latest waltz music. Presently she turned around and said,-- “You are unkind, Gertrude. You are unmarried, unengaged, and you can take as much interest as you may care to in any man, married or otherwise, and the world doesn’t stop to gossip about you--that is, of course, if you don’t go on in a scandalous way. But let a married woman show the slightest attention to a man who is not her husband, and everybody begins to whisper and nod and smile, and you are lucky if _Town Tattle_ doesn’t begin to hint at another divorce in the inner circle. I don’t care how many people sing my songs and admire my music, but I wish they _would_ stop talking about _me_. Can you tell me, Gertrude, why I shouldn’t have the privilege of talking to--to Richard Stoughton, for instance, without being gossiped about?” “The trouble is, you know, Harriet,” answered Gertrude, the mischievous gleam returning to her eye, “that whatever may be the case with marriage, it was long ago decided that Platonic friendship is a failure.” “Perhaps so,” returned Mrs. Percy-Bartlett rather wearily. “But people will follow it, _ignis fatuus_ though it may be, to the end of time.” Gertrude arose to go. “Well, Harriet,” she said softly, bending over and kissing her friend on the forehead, “don’t be annoyed at anything I’ve said. I certainly have the warmest sympathy with your disinclination to let life bore you.” Mrs. Percy-Bartlett arose and took Gertrude’s hand. “And you will come to my musicale on Tuesday night, my dear?” “Indeed I shall. I want to get better acquainted with Mr. Richard Stoughton, you know.”