I wondered if he didn’t think she was picturesque, when she sat in a splendid, shining coach, and took part in a public parade through Central Park.  But I did not say this.  I went off, and swore my reporter to abstain from the “human touch,” and he promised and kept his word.  There appeared next morning a dignified “write-up” of Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver’s interest in child-labour reform.  Quoting me, it described some of the places she had visited, and some of the sights which had shocked her; it went on to tell about our committee and its work, the status of our bill in the legislature, the need of activity on the part of our friends if the measure was to be forced through at this session.  It was a splendid “boost” for our work, and everyone in the office was in raptures over it.  The social revolution was at hand! thought my young stenographer.

But the trouble with this business of publicity is that, however carefully you control your interviewer, you cannot control the others who use his material.  The “afternoon men” came round for more details, and they made it clear that it was personal details they wanted.  And when I side-stepped their questions, they went off and made up answers to suit themselves, and printed Sylvia’s pictures, together with photographs of child-workers taken from our pamphlets.

I called Sylvia up while she was dressing for dinner, to explain that I was not responsible for any of this picturesqueness.  “Oh, perhaps I am to blame myself!” she exclaimed.  “I think I interviewed a reporter.”

“How do you mean?”

“A woman sent up her card—­she told the footman she was a friend of mine.  And I thought—­I couldn’t be sure if I’d met her—­so I went and saw her.  She said she’d met me at Mrs. Harold Cliveden’s, and she began to talk to me about child-labour, and this and that plan she had, and what did I think of them, and suddenly it flashed over me:  ‘Maybe this is a reporter playing a trick on me!’”

I hurried out before breakfast next morning and got all the papers, to see what this enterprising lady had done.  There was nothing, so I reflected that probably she had been a “Sunday” lady.

But then, when I reached my office, the ’phone rang, and I heard the voice of Sylvia:  “Mary, something perfectly dreadful has happened!”

“What?” I cried.

“I can’t tell you over the ’phone, but a certain person is furiously angry.  Can I see you if I come down right away?”

26.  Such terrors as these were unguessed by me in the days of my obscurity.  Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, uneasy also, lies the wife of that head, and the best friend of the wife.  I dismissed my stenographer, and spent ten or fifteen restless minutes until Sylvia appeared.