"I don't think it sounds silly at all," she cried. "I think it's splendid. You can count on _The Dispatch_." "But _The Dispatch_ isn't partisan," he said with a smile. "It never takes sides." "Well, it will this time," she declared truculently. He laughed. "You're still a woman, Judith." Then his expression changed, and his voice was tender. "I guess that's all you ever will be--to me." The wind had shifted, making their refuge no longer comfortable, and Judith suddenly became conscious of the hour. "Goodness--I've only ten minutes to get to Mrs. Dodson's. Coming that way?" He nodded, and fell in beside her. They walked all the way in silence. When they reached the magnificent building in which Mrs. Dodson slept, but which seldom saw her when awake, Judith held out her hand. "You haven't been near me for ages. Won't you come--occasionally--as you used to?" "Do you really want me to?" His eyes seemed extraordinarily bright as he put the question. "Of course." "Then I will." He kept his gaze on her for a moment. With a wave of his hand he turned sharply on his heel, and was on his way as if time were precious. Never, she thought, as she went into the house, had Imrie looked quite so handsome, quite so virile. And never, certainly had she extended an invitation to him which was more sincere, nor with the prospect of its acceptance more wholly appealing. Yet she could not rid herself of an inexplicable sadness. It was some time, as she tried to listen attentively to Mrs. Dodson's level voice, before the picture of a pair of glistening blue eyes and a head of close-cropped, curly, blonde hair, and ruddy cheeks, and a set of firm white teeth, parted in a smile, half wistful, half enthusiastic, ceased dancing before her. She was, she concluded, only a woman. CHAPTER XIII THE PILOT GOES OVERBOARD Good and Roger Wynrod sat in the latter's office one afternoon, about a week later, discussing, as was their regular habit, the day's paper. This conference had always been a one-sided one, but of late the balance had shifted. At first Good had done the talking and Roger had listened. Now it was the other way around. That the change was not displeasing to Good was manifest from the faint smile which played around his lips. He smoked his pipe gravely and had very little to say. He acquiesced in everything and made no suggestions. When matters of a routine nature had been disposed of, Roger leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. "I had lunch the other day with Dick Menefee, Corey's new advertising manager," he said with a reminiscent chuckle. "He was in my class in college--same society and all that. First thing he asked me was why _The Dispatch_ was on their blacklist." "I suppose you told him?" "With variations. Also I told him one or two things they probably don't know at Corey's." "About--?" "Yes. It interested him because he doesn't cotton to Joe much better than we do." "What happened?"