"Ah yes," said the diplomatist on the stair, looking as though he had memorized the exact words. "Ah yes! June! Thank you." He nodded gratefully at Mr. Goodchild, jotted down a date, and put the paper in his pocket.
"Congratulations, Miss Goodchild," he said to her, with profound respect, and descended. In the hall he said to his colleagues: "Come on, boys. We've got the month. She is Number One, and—"
"If you dare to print anything I'll have you fired," fumed Mr. Goodchild.
"If you were a younger man I'd tell you to fire your grandmother, sir. But I fear me she is, alas! no more. In the mean time, Mr. Goodchild, will you be good enough to pose for our artist? Look pleasant, please. You'll have to close your mouth to do it. Wilson, you may begin filming when ready!" he said to his photographer, who had just pushed past Frederick.
Sounds of cheering and applause came from the street. The ultra-fashionable friends of Grace Goodchild, having been photographed, were shaking hands with the artists and spelling their own names to the reporters.
The gaping proletariate, seeing such graciousness, recognized the aristocracy of the democracy and were cheering madly. An aristocracy whose sense of humor makes it kindly is lasting.
"Them's real swells!" shrieked a red-headed girl who carried a large bandbox.
More cheers.
At that moment Grace Goodchild, impelled by an irresistible curiosity appeared at her door.
"There she is! Hooray!" proudly shrieked two hundred and eighteen potential Socialists, making room for Bishop Phillipson.