Densmore whistled.  “That explains it.  Maitland says you’ll make the club team in two years.  Let us get together and fix you up some ponies,” invited Densmore.

Banneker shook his head, but wistfully.

“Until you’re making enough to carry your own.”

“That might be ten years, in the newspaper business.  Or never.

“Then get out of it.  Let Old Man Masters find you something in the Street.  You could get away with it,” persuaded Densmore.  “And he’ll do anything for a polo-man.”

“No, thank you.  No paid-athlete job for mine.  I’d rather stay a reporter.”

“Come into the club, anyway.  You can afford that.  And at least you can take a mount on your day off.”

“I’m thinking of another job where I’ll have more time to myself than one day a week,” confessed Banneker, having in mind possible magazine work.  He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The Retreat.  It was expensive; it would involve frequent taxi charges.  But, as ever, Banneker had an unreasoning faith in a financial providence of supply.  “Yes:  I’ll come in,” he said.  “That is, if I can get in.”

“You’ll get in, with Poultney Masters for a backer.  Otherwise, I’ll tell you frankly, I think your business would keep you out, in spite of your polo.”

“Densmore, there’s something I’ve been wanting to put up to you.”

Densmore’s heavy brows came to attention.  “Fire ahead.”

“You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certain questions.”

“I was.  Any fellow would be.  You would.”

“Perhaps.  But suppose, through the work of some other reporter, a divorce story involving the sister and brother-in-law of some chap in your set had appeared in the papers.”

“No concern of mine.”

“But you’d read it, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably.”

“And if your paper didn’t have it in and another paper did, you’d buy the other paper to find out about it.”

“If I was interested in the people, I might.”

“Then what kind of a sport are you, when you’re keen to read about other people’s scandals, but sore on any one who inquires about yours?”

“That’s the other fellow’s bad luck.  If he—­”

“You don’t get my point.  A newspaper is simply a news exchange.  If you’re ready to read about the affairs of others, you should not resent the activity of the newspaper that attempts to present yours.  I’m merely advancing a theory.”

“Damned ingenious,” admitted the polo-player.  “Make a reporter a sort of public agent, eh?  Only, you see, he isn’t.  He hasn’t any right to my private affairs.”

“Then you shouldn’t take advantage of his efforts, as you do when you read about your friends.”

“Oh, that’s too fine-spun for me.  Now, I’ll tell you; just because I take a drink at a bar I don’t make a pal of the bartender.  It comes to about the same thing, I fancy.  You’re trying to justify your profession.  Let me ask you; do you feel that you’re within your decent rights when you come to a stranger with such a question as you put up to me?”