that wished to supply her, as, its circular announced, it supplied the wives of many other prominent Americans, with newspaper comments on their husbands.  As a bait for securing a client these examples of what the American press was saying of Morton Bassett were decidedly ill-chosen.  The “Stop, Look, Listen” editorial had suggested to many influential journals a re-indictment of bossism with the Bassett-Thatcher imbroglio as text.  It was disenchanting to find one’s husband enrolled in a list of political reprobates whose activities in so many states were a menace to public safety.  Her father had served with distinction and honor this same commonwealth that her husband was debasing; he had been a statesman, not a politician, not a boss.  Blackford Singleton had belonged to the coterie that included such men as Hoar and Evarts, Thurman and Bayard; neither her imagination nor her affection could bridge the chasm that separated men of their type from her husband, who, in middle life, was content with a seat in the state legislature and busied himself with wars upon petty rivals.  Such reflections as these did not contribute to her peace of mind.

She was alone in her room at Mrs. Owen’s when Bassett appeared, late in the afternoon.  Mrs. Owen was downtown on business matters; Marian, after exhausting all her devices for making her mother comfortable, had flown in search of acquaintances; and Sylvia had that day taken up her work in the normal school.  Left to herself for the greater part of the warm afternoon, Mrs. Bassett had indulged luxuriously in forebodings.  She had not expected her husband, and his unannounced entrance startled her.

“Well,” she remarked drearily, “so you have come back to face it, have you?”

“I’m undoubtedly back, Hallie,” he answered, with an effort at lightness, crossing to the bedside and taking her hand.

He had rarely discussed his political plans with her, but he realized that the rupture with Thatcher must naturally have distressed her; and there was also Thatcher’s lawsuit involving her aunt, which had disagreeable possibilities.

“I’m sorry your name got into the papers, Hallie.  I didn’t want you to go to the convention, but of course I knew you went to please Marian.  Where is Marian?”

“Oh, she’s off somewhere.  I couldn’t expect her to stay here in this hot room all day.”

The room was not uncomfortable; but it seemed wiser not to debate questions of temperature.  He found a chair and sat down beside her.

“You mustn’t worry about the newspapers, Hallie; they always make the worst of everything.  The temptation to distort facts to make a good story is strong; I have seen it in my connection with the ‘Courier.’  It’s lamentable, but you can’t correct it in a day.  I’m pretty well hardened to it myself, but I’m sorry you have let these attacks on me annoy you.  The only thing to do is to ignore them.  What’s that you have there?”