"If I went to you and asked for money to build a hospital or a school, or a church--" She looked up sharply at that. But it was plain that there was no covert meaning in his words. He went on intently. "You'd think that understandable enough. You'd probably hand it over. But, Miss Wynrod, I want your money for something of greater value to society than all the churches and hospitals put together. I want you to put your money to work clearing up this muddled old world of ours by bringing sunshine and oxygen and hope and understanding into men's minds. I want you--how can I possibly make clear to you how much I want it--I want you to--to--buy ... a _newspaper_!" He stopped and waited for her to speak. But she could only echo the word stupidly. Then she managed to convey to him that she wanted him to go on. He did, but his voice seemed to have lost something of its intensity, and his words came with more confidence. "Yes. I've told you so indirectly many times. But I never made it personal, partly because I hated to put my hopes to the test, partly because there seemed no opening. Now I have the opening. The divinity that shapes our ends is doing its best for me, it seems. I learned yesterday that _The Dispatch_ would sell out at a ridiculous figure. That made me screw my courage up to the testing point. I came up this morning to tell you about it. Then your brother--why, it couldn't have worked out better for me! The opportunity his future offers as a lever to move you ... well, Miss Wynrod, what do you think?" She laughed unaffectedly at that. "What do I think? Heavens. How _can_ I think. You fire an entirely novel idea at me and expect me to answer at once. You've stunned me." "But it's not new," cried Good. "We've talked the idea of this over a hundred times." "The oldest thing in the world is new when it's applied to one's self for the first time," said Judith sententiously. "Still, it isn't really new, is it?" he persisted. "Well--not entirely," she admitted. "Of course not. It's Roger's part in it that's new. That bewilders you, of course." "What _is_ his part?" she interrupted. "Running a newspaper is exactly like running any other kind of a business--only harder. He'd be the manager--with assistance of course--with a chance to make all out of himself that he can. He'd be your representative." "I see," she said thoughtfully. "That seems to dispose of him. Now where does Brent Good fit into the scheme of things?" "Wherever he fits. Give him $15 a week and he'd fit anywhere. That would be enough of a raise over his present honorarium to justify him in changing." "You're joking," she cried. "About the salary? Not a bit. It's enough. Besides, it leaves room for promotion. As a matter of fact I've been told by potential employers that it was too much."