“If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?” she asked shrewdly.

Enderby winced and chuckled simultaneously.  “Probably not.  It is doubtful whether he could find another rostrum of equal influence.  And his influence is mainly for good.  But since you seem to be interested in newspapers, Io”—­he gave her another of his keen glances—­“from The Patriot you can make a diagnosis of the disease from which modern journalism is suffering.  A deep-seated, pervasive insincerity.  At its worst, it is open, shameless hypocrisy.  The public feels it, but is too lacking in analytical sense to comprehend it.  Hence the unformulated, instinctive, universal distrust of the press.  ’I never believe anything I read in the papers.’  Of course, that is both false and silly.  But the feeling is there; and it has to be reckoned with one day.  From this arises an injustice, that the few papers which are really upright, honest, and faithful to their own standards, are tainted in the public mind with the double-dealing of the others.  Such as The Patriot.”

“You use The Patriot for your purposes,” Io pointed out.

“When it stands for what I believe right.  I only wish I could trust it.”

“Then you really feel that you can’t trust Mr. Banneker?”

“Ah; we’re back to that!” thought Enderby with uneasiness.  Aloud he said:  “It’s a very pretty problem whether a writer who shares the profits of a hypocritical and dishonest policy can maintain his own professional independence and virtue.  I gravely doubt it.”

“I don’t,” said Io, and there was pride in her avowal.

“My dear,” said the Judge gravely, “what does it all mean?  Are you letting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?”

Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her old friend.  “If I ever marry again, I shall marry him.”

“You’re not going to divorce poor Delavan?” asked the other quickly.

“No.  I shall play the game through,” was the quiet reply.

For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking.  “Does Banneker know your—­your intentions?”

“No.”

“You mustn’t let him, Io.”

“He won’t know the intention.  He may know the—­the feeling back of it.”  A slow and glorious flush rose in her face, making her eyes starry.  “I don’t know that I can keep it from him, Cousin Billy.  I don’t even know that I want to.  I’m an honest sort of idiot, you know.”

“God grant that he may prove as honest!” he half whispered.

Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pate sandwiches for Io, supplanted the lawyer.

“Are you the devotee of toil that common report believes, Ban?” she asked him lazily.  “They say that you write editorials with one hand and welcome your guests with the other.”

“Not quite that,” he answered.  “To-night I’m not thinking of work.  I’m not thinking of anything but you.  It’s very wonderful, your being here.”