"What did it find?"
"The question proves my point. The findings of that committee are buried away in bulky volumes that nobody sees, while the world is fed half on fiction and half on lies."
"Why don't the newspapers tell us what's in those bulky volumes?"
"Because," he said, with ineffable dejection, as if trying to answer a question that he knew he could not answer, "it wouldn't be interesting—and it wouldn't pay."
"Must everything in a newspaper pay?" she demanded.
"That's what newspapers are run for," he said sadly. "They've got to pay—pay—always to pay...."
His voice trailed off into a whisper, and he sat silent. She tried to win him back to the theme upon which he had talked so earnestly, and which had stirred her more than she realised. But as if fearful that he had not been understood, he proved obdurate. Finally he rose and held out his hand.
"I must say good night and good-bye, Miss Wynrod. I will not see you in the morning. I must take the early train. It was good of you to ask me out to-night. I'm sorry I couldn't seem more—more—appreciative."
A thought flashed across her mind as they walked slowly back to the house.
"You will come and see me—occasionally?" she asked, as they stood on the terrace.