She had a simple-minded faith in the integrity of newspapers and the printed word, but he could at least show that the word could contradict itself. “Very well,” he said, “it’s a letter, and so is this.” He took a copy of the paper from his pocket. Stewart had kept his word, no great feat since he had a good idea of what his editor supposed the Sunday public to want, and a column of fervent correspondence flared under the heading of “The Social Evil.--Is the Pamphlet Justified?” Sam chose a letter which described Adams as a crusader and Branstone, his publisher, as a high-souled social reformer courageously risking misapprehension for principle and the right, calling the endorsement of the Rev. Peter Struggles to witness in proof of his irreproachable motives. “Well,” said Sam, “am I to be misapprehended after all, and by you?” “You told me you wrote the other letter,” she said. “Don’t you mean that you wrote this one?” “I don’t,” he said truthfully. He wrote his, attacking himself, on one side of Stewart’s desk, while Stewart at the other defended him. It had been great fun. “And what,” she asked, “is the business affair you say you’re engaged on?” “Why,” he said unguardedly, “it’s this.” “Then I don’t misapprehend at all, my son. I apprehend very well. And you’ve worked Peter Struggles into it. Was that why you got engaged to Ada?” “Mother!” he protested. “Doubt me if you like, but you must not doubt Mr. Struggles. He surely is above suspicion.” “He’s keeping bad company just now,” said Anne, “and I doubt you’ve been too clever for him.” Sam chose to be offended. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked. “That you’re clever. Aye. I think that all right. I’ve known it since the time when you tricked a parcel of schoolboys out of a house of furniture and put George Chappie into it. You’re clever in the wrong places, Sam. When you were at school, you were clever out of school. You’re at business now and you ought; to be clever in honesty, and I’ve the notion that you’re being clever in dishonesty.” “Of course,” he said, “this only shows how right I was not to tell you. It’s the old story. Women don’t understand business.” “I know. Business is a pair of spectacles that makes black into white, but I don’t wear spectacles myself. Are you going to tell me what you’re doing with that thousand pounds?” “I told you it isn’t decided yet. But if the sales of that pamphlet go up this week as they did last, I’m going into the publishing business with it.” “So that you can publish more of the same sort?” “If I can get them. There’s a lot of money in it.” “Sam,” she said earnestly, “is that all you’re caring about?”