They went into the elevator. “Come up to the Managing Editor’s office with me,” he said. He motioned her into a seat in Canfield’s anteroom and sat beside her. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Let us never be afraid to tell each other the exact truth.”
“How could I go out there alone with you? The whole office, everybody we meet there, would be talking about us.”
“I see,” he said with raillery. “You thought I had sacrificed your reputation in my eagerness to get you within easy reach of my wiles? Well, perhaps I might have done it in some circumstances. But in this case that happens not to have been my idea. I remembered what you have for the moment forgotten—that you are on the staff of the Democrat. I got you the assignment to do part of this strike. My private reasons for doing so are not in the matter at all. You may rest assured that, if I had not thought you’d send good despatches and make yourself stronger on the paper and justify my insistence, I should not have interfered.”
She sat silent, ashamed of the exhibition of vanity and suspicion into which she had been hurried. “I beg your pardon,” she said at last.
“I love you,” he answered in a low voice. “And those three little words mean more to me—than I thought they could mean. Let us go in to see Canfield.”
“I don’t in the least trust Marlowe’s judgment about you, now that I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Canfield—polite, pale, thin of face, with a sharp nose; his dark circled eyes betrayed how restlessly and sleeplessly his mind prowled through the world in the daily search for the newest news. “But my own judgment is gone too. So if you please, go to Furnaceville for us.” He dropped his drawing-room tone and poured out a flood of instructions—“Send us what you see—what you really see. If you see misery, send it. If not, for heaven’s sake, don’t ‘fake’ it. Put humour in your stuff—all the humour you possibly can—‘fake’ that, if necessary. But it won’t be necessary, if you have real eyes. Go to the workmen’s houses. Look all through them—parlours, bedrooms, kitchen. Look at the grocer’s bills and butcher’s. Tell what their clothes cost. Describe their children. Talk to their children. Make us see just what kind of people these are that are making such a stir. You’ve a great opportunity. Don’t miss it. And don’t, don’t, don’t, do ‘fine writing.’ No ‘literature’—just life—men, women, children. Here’s an order for a hundred dollars. If you run short, Marlowe will telegraph you more.”
“Then we don’t go together after all?” she said to Marlowe, as they left Canfield’s office.
“I’m sorry you’re to be disappointed,” he replied, mockingly. “I stay in Pittsburg for the present. You go out to the mills—out to Furnaceville first.”
“Where the militia are?”
“Yes—they’re expecting trouble there next week. I’ll probably be on in a day or so. But I must see several people in Pittsburg first. You’ll have the artist with you, though. Try to keep him sober. But if he will get drunk, turn him adrift. He’ll only hamper you.”