“Well,” said Mr. Atwater, “I’m glad our branch of the family isn’t responsible.  That’s a comfort, anyhow, especially as people are reading copies of Herbert’s dreadful paper all up and down the town, my clerk says.  He tells me that over at the Unity Trust Company, where young Murdock Hawes is cashier, they only got hold of one copy, but typewrote it and multigraphed it, and some of ’em have already learned it by heart to recite to poor young Hawes.  He’s the one who sent Julia the three fivepound boxes of chocolates from New York all at the same time, you remember.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Atwater sighed.  “Poor thing!”

“Florence is out among the family, I suppose?” he inquired.

“No; she’s right here.  She’s just started to read Ruskin this afternoon.  She says she’s going to begin and read all of him straight through.  That’s very nice, don’t you think?”

He seemed to muse before replying.

“I think that’s very nice, at her age especially,” Mrs. Atwater urged.  “Don’t you?”

“Ye-es!  Oh, yes!  At least I suppose so.  Ah—­you don’t think—­of course she hasn’t had anything at all to do with this?”

“Well, I don’t see how she could.  You know Aunt Fanny told us how Herbert declared before them all, only last Sunday night, that Florence should never have one thing to do with his printing-press, and said they wouldn’t even let her come near it.”

“Yes, that’s a fact.  I’m glad Herbert made it so clear that she can’t be implicated.  I suppose the family are all pretty well down on Uncle Joseph?”

“Uncle Joseph is being greatly blamed,” said Mrs. Atwater primly.  “He really ought to have known better than to put such an instrument as a printing-press into the hands of an irresponsible boy of that age.  Of course it simply encouraged him to print all kinds of things.  We none of us think Uncle Joseph ever dreamed that Herbert would publish, anything exactly like this, and of course Uncle Joseph says himself he never dreamed such a thing; he’s said so time and time and time again, all afternoon.  But of course he’s greatly blamed.”

“I suppose there’ve been quite a good many of ’em over there blaming him?” her husband inquired.

“Yes—­until he telephoned to a garage and hired a car and went for a drive.  He said he had plenty of money with him and didn’t know when he’d be back.”

“Serves him right,” said Mr. Atwater.  “Does anybody know where Herbert is?”

“Not yet!”

“Well——­” and he returned to a former theme.  “I am glad we aren’t implicated.  Florence is right there with you, you say?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Atwater replied.  “She’s right here, reading.  You aren’t worried about her, are you?” she added.

“Oh, no; I’m sure it’s all right.  I only thought——­”

“Only thought what?”

“Well, it did strike me as curious,” said Mr. Atwater; “especially after Aunt Fanny’s telling us how Herbert declared Florence could never have a single thing to do with his paper again——­”