DOROTHY DEANE, “SOCIETY EDITOR” “GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Williams.” The managing editor of the Washington _Tribune_ twisted about in his revolving-chair, and his frown changed into a smile of welcome at sight of his society editor standing in the doorway, a roll of soiled copy clutched in one hand, while a much blue-penciled daily newspaper dangled from the other. “Come in, Miss Deane,” he said, pointing toward a chair by his desk. “How are you feeling today after last night’s gayety at the White House?” “Rather wintry, thank you.” A twinkle in Dorothy Deane’s eyes belied her serious expression. “Your compositors spoiled my beauty sleep.” “What’s their latest offense?” “This--” She spread the morning newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the second column, beneath the sub-heading: “Beauty at the White House.” The sentence read: “Mrs. Anson Smith, wife of Senator-elect Smith, wore a handsome string of pearls.” “Beauty unadorned,” quoted the managing editor dryly. “Your description would fit nine out of ten women of the ultra-smart set of today.” “But it is not my description,” retorted Dorothy hotly. “Here’s my copy, perfectly legible,” displaying it. “The compositors simply did not set up the remainder of the sentence. If you could have heard Mr. Smith’s language to me on the telephone this morning--” “The irate husband, eh!” Williams laughed unsympathetically. “Mrs. Smith must have had a gown made especially for the occasion--” “She did, and sent me a full description of it yesterday--” “And it did not get published--ah, take it from me, Miss Deane, _that’s_ where the shoe pinched.” “Possibly; but that doesn’t excuse the blunder in the composing-room or the stupidity of the men on the copy desk,” declared Dorothy. “I have to stand for their mistakes.” Williams frowned, then smiled. “They will read your copy more carefully in the future, I promise you,” he said. “I never saw you angry before, Miss Deane; now you look like the picture I have of you.” “Picture?” Dorothy’s blue eyes opened to their widest extent. “_You_ have a picture of me?” “Your emphasis is not very flattering,” responded Williams, chuckling. “Our staff photographer snapped you and your sister one day last autumn, and I found the boys were going to run the picture in a Sunday supplement to surprise you. I didn’t think you’d like it, so took it away from them.” As he spoke he opened a drawer of his desk and, tumbling its contents about, finally pulled out a photograph. “I meant to have given it to you before.” “Thanks,” and Dorothy glanced at the photograph with interest as she took it. “What were you two squabbling about?” demanded Williams, staring at the photograph. “Your sister looks a veritable Lady Macbeth.” “Oh, she doesn’t approve of my spendthrift ways,” answered Dorothy lightly. “Vera says I never will learn by experience,” and an involuntary sigh escaped her.