"I'll call her up myself," said Max Onthemaker, resolutely. "What's the Goodchild number?"
He went to the telephone and gave the number of his own office in low tones. Presently he said, loudly enough to be heard by all, "Is this 777 Fifth Avenue?"
He alone heard the answer. He would not lie. He was a lawyer. It was unnecessary.
"Can I speak with Miss Goodchild? No; Miss Goodchild."
After a judiciously measured pause he spoke again: "Good afternoon. This is Mr. Onthemaker speaking. Quite well, thank you. I hope you are the same!... That's good!... Yes, miss, I saw him this morning. The papers wish to publish your photograph.... I'm sorry, but they say they simply must!... I am at La Touche's studio.... They doubtless do not do you justice, but they are the best ever taken of you—... No, I don't think they can wait for new ones.... One moment, please—"
He held his hand in front of the transmitter so she couldn't hear him say to La Touche:
"She wants some new ones."
"To-morrow at two," said La Touche.
"Give us the old ones now," chorused the reporters. "We'll publish the new ones for the wedding."
"I am sorry"—Max again spoke into the telephone—"but they say they want some now. They'll use the others later.... Which one?... The one Mr. Rutgers likes?... Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much."