"Have you? Tell me anything about it you wish."
"You remember that—last editorial in the Post?"
"Do you think that I forget so easily?"
West hardly liked that reply. Nor had he ever supposed that he would find the subject so difficult.
"Well! I was surprised and—hurt to learn—recently—that you had—well, had been rather severe with Surface, under the impression that—the full responsibility for that article was his."
Sharlee sat in the same flowered arm-chair she had once occupied to put this same Surface, then known as little Dr. Queed, in his place. Her heart warmed to West for his generous impulse to intercede. Still, she hardly conceived that her treatment of Mr. Surface was any concern of Mr. West's.
"And so?"
"I must tell you," he said, oddly uneasy under her straightforward look, "that—that you have made a mistake. The responsibility is mine."
"Ah, you mean that you, as the editor, are willing to take it."
"No," said West—"no"; and then suddenly he felt like a rash suicide, repentant at the last moment. Already the waters were rushing over his head; he felt a wild impulse to clutch at the life-belt she had flung out to him. It is to be remembered to his credit that he conquered it. "No,—I—I wrote the article myself."