“It’s a shame she lectured you in public,” grumbled Williams, whose friendly interest in Dorothy’s career had already smoothed many rough places. “Oh, I don’t know--couldn’t find a more convenient place than the steps of the Emergency Hospital to receive the _coup de grâce_,” laughed Dorothy. “And Vera doesn’t mean half she says.” “By the way, didn’t you once tell me that your sister was nursing Craig Porter at their country place in Virginia?” “Yes, she is.” Williams gazed at her with quickened interest. “Seen the afternoon papers?” he asked. “No, I haven’t had time.” The imperative ring of the telephone interrupted her, and Williams, waving an impatient hand in farewell, jerked the desk telephone toward him. Still holding her photograph, but leaving her copy and the morning paper behind on the desk, Dorothy closed the door of the private office, made her way through the city room, borrowed an afternoon newspaper from several lying on the city editor’s desk, and disappeared into the small room set aside for her exclusive use. She was some minutes placing her hat, coat, and handbag on their accustomed peg, then ensconcing herself before her desk she sorted her mail; that done, she picked up the photograph given her by the managing editor and studied it more closely. The photograph was, like many an unposed snapshot, a good likeness; too good, she thought, noting her sister’s determined expression and her own rebellious countenance. For all her jesting with the managing editor, the conversation she and Vera had had that autumn afternoon lingered in her memory with a bitter flavor; remarks had been made which neither could forget. Dorothy turned over the photograph and read with a wry smile the “legend” pasted there: Two members of famous family adopt professions--Left to right, Miss Vera and Miss Dorothy Deane, daughters of the late distinguished jurist, Stephen Deane, Chief Justice of the District Court of Appeals, desert the ballroom and pink teas for professional life. Miss Vera Deane is a graduate trained nurse, while her younger sister has found her _métier_ as a journalist, and ably conducts the society section of the _Morning Tribune_. Tossing aside the photograph, Dorothy picked up the afternoon newspaper and was about to turn to the society page when she stopped, her attention arrested by a display heading: BRUCE BRAINARD A SUICIDE KILLS HIMSELF AT PORTER HOMESTEAD