Mrs. De Peyster arose; her worry about her missing son prompted her to seek the relief of movement.  “I think I shall take a turn about the house to see that everything is being properly closed.  Would you like to come with me?”

Olivetta would; and, talking, they went together down the stairs.  As they neared the ground floor, Matilda’s voice arose to them, expostulating, protesting.

“What can that be about?” wondered Mrs. De Peyster, and following the voice toward its source she stepped into her reception-room.  Instantly there sprang up and stood before her a young man with the bland, smiling, excessively polite manner of a gentleman-brigand.  And around her crowded five or six other figures.

Matilda, pressing through them, glared at these invaders in helpless wrath, then at her mistress in guilty terror.

“I—­I did my best, ma’am.  But they wouldn’t go.”  And before punishment could fall she discreetly fled.

“Pardon this seeming intrusion, Mrs. De Peyster,” the foremost young man said rapidly, smoothly, appeasingly.  “But we could not go, as you requested.  The sailing of Mrs. De Peyster, under the attendant circumstances, is a piece of news of first importance; in fact, almost a national event.  We simply had to see you.  I trust you perceive and appreciate our professional predicament.”

Mrs. De Peyster was glaring at him with devastating majesty.

“This—­this is an outrage!”

“Perhaps it may seem an outrage to you,” said the young man swiftly, politely, and thoroughly undevastated.  “But, really, it is only our duty.  Our duty to our papers, and to the great reading public.  And when newspaper men are doing their duty they must necessarily fail, to their great personal regret, in the observance of some of the nicer courtesies.”

Mrs. De Peyster was almost inarticulate.

“Who—­who are you?”

“Mayfair is my name.  Of the ‘Record.’”

“The ‘Record’!  That yellow, radical paper!”

Mr. Mayfair stepped nearer.  His voice sank to an easy, confidential tone.

“You are misled by appearances, Mrs. De Peyster.  Every paper has got to have a policy; we’re the common people’s paper—­big circulation, you know; and we so denounce the rich on our editorial page.  But as a matter of fact we give our readers more live, entertaining, and respectful matter about society people than any other paper in New York.  It’s just what the common people love.  And now”—­easily shifting his base—­“about this reported engagement of your son and Miss Quintard.  As you know, it’s the best ‘romance in high life’ story of the season.  Will you either confirm or deny the report?”

“I have nothing whatever to say,” flamed out Mrs. De Peyster.  “And will you leave this house instantly!”