"Yes," he said, "I think it would. If you'll leave us for a bit, I'll tell your sister what's on my mind. Then, if she likes, she can tell you." Roger jumped to his feet. "Well," he cried, "it strikes me that you're disposing of me pretty easily. I'm of age, you know." "If you say much more," said Good mildly, "I'll be tempted to clear out and try an interview with your sister some other time. Now--if you please." As soon as the sound of Roger's grumbling had died away, Good burst abruptly into speech. "Miss Wynrod," he said curtly, "before I put my proposition to you, I want to know whether you are prepared to spend some money for that boy's future--not to speak of your own?" "How much money?" she asked, principally to regain the poise that his inexplicable earnestness had driven from her. "A good deal." She smiled faintly. Would she spend "a good deal" for Roger? The thought almost made her laugh aloud. But she controlled herself, and her reply was almost indifferent in tone. "Yes--if I thought the plan promised well." "I knew it, of course," cried Good. Then he drew his chair closer to hers, and emphasising his points with his long forefinger against the palm of his hand, began. "To begin with, Miss Wynrod, you know how I feel toward the press. We've talked it over often. You know I believe that to turn this old world over and set it on its feet where it belongs, all clean and sound and sweet, the first thing we've got to have is truth--truth, truth, always truth and more truth--nothing whatever but truth, nothing evaded or concealed. In a word, we've got to have a free and a candid press. You understand all that, don't you?" His eyes clouded and a look of anxiety came into them. But it was dispelled at her answer. "I'm not deaf, Mr. Good." "Well...." He stopped and scratched his head as if something eluded him. "I'm so full of it all--all the time--that I don't know where to begin. It's my great dream. Every dreamer has one particular dream. This is mine. I've been on the hunt for my chance. Now when it seems to be here I don't know how to seize it. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing and spoiling it all. For years I've been looking for a millionaire--some one to endow my dream. You're the one I've picked. You understand, I think. I don't seem so crazy to you. And you've got the stuff in you to stand the gaff when things go hard. It's not so hard to get money, but sympathy ... faith ... people stop when the light goes out. You're different. You'd go on. You ... do you follow me?" He stopped and surveyed her anxiously. The deep creases over his nose, his short sentences, the sharp nervous movements of his hands, all betrayed the stress under which he spoke. It would disappoint him, perhaps stop him altogether, if she said that she did not follow. But as she assured him that she did, she wondered how much of his meaning she really missed. Nevertheless her manner seemed to satisfy him.