“It’s dreadful.”

“Why?”

“For every reason.  The music misfits the words.  It’s beyond the range of most voices.  The harmonies are thin.  No crowd in the world can sing it.  What is the value or inspiration of a national song that the people can’t sing?”

“Ask it of The Patriot’s public.  I’ll follow it up editorially; ’Wanted; A Song for America.’”

“I will,” she answered impulsively.  Then she laughed.  “Is that the way you get your contributors?”

“Often, as the spider said to the fly,” grinned Banneker the shameless.  “Take a thousand words or more and let us have your picture.”

“No.  Not that.  I’ve seen my friends’ pictures too often in your society columns.  By the way, how comes it that a paper devoted to the interests of the common people maintains that aristocratic feature?”

“Oh, the common people eat it alive.  Russell Edmonds is largely responsible for keeping it up.  You should hear his theory.  It’s ingenious.  I’ll send for him.”

Edmonds, who chanced to be at his desk, entered the editorial den with his tiny pipe between his teeth, and, much disconcerted at finding a lady there, hastily removed it until Miss Van Arsdale suggested its restitution.

“What?  The society page?” said he.  “Yes; I was against dropping it.  You see, Miss Van Arsdale, I’m a Socialist in belief.”

“Is there a pun concealed in that or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?”

“Serious.  I’m always that on the subjects of Socialism and The Patriot.”

“Then you must explain if I’m to understand.”

“By whom is society news read?  By two classes,” expounded the veteran; “those whose names appear, and those who are envious of those whose names appear.  Well, we’re after the envious.”

“Still I don’t see.  With what purpose?’

“Jim Simpson, who has just got his grocery bill for more than he can pay, reads a high-colored account of Mrs. Stumpley-Triggs’s aquatic dinner served in the hundred-thousand-dollar swimming-pool on her Westchester estate.  That makes Jim think.”

“You mean that it makes him discontented.”

“Well, discontent is a mighty leaven.”

Miss Van Arsdale directed her fine and serious eyes upon Banneker.  “So it comes back to the cult of discontent.  Is that Mr. Marrineal’s formula, too, Mr. Edmonds?”

“Underneath all his appearance of candor, Marrineal’s a secret animal,” said Edmonds.

“Does he leave you a free hand with your editorials, Ban?” inquired the outsider.

“Absolutely.”

“Watches the circulation only,” said Edmonds.  “Thus far,” he added.

“You’re looking for an ulterior motive, then,” interpreted Miss Van Arsdale.

“I’m looking for whatever I can find in Marrineal, Miss Van Arsdale,” confessed the patriarch of the office.  “As yet I haven’t found much.”