The door-bell bored itself into her consciousness, and she went out to confront more reporters.
"Mrs. Chapman is too ill to see you," she said curtly.
"But it's you we want to see," returned one, whose face she recalled from the earlier invasion. "There are new developments, and we'd like to have your comment. It's of public interest, Mrs. Atwood."
Her anger flamed out against them.
"What have I to do with your public?" she demanded. "I have nothing to say to it."
"But you consented to an interview this morning," rejoined the spokesman for the group. "Why do you object to another?"
"I consented to an interview!"
"Here you are," he said, producing one of the more sensational newspapers. "'The beautiful wife of the well-known illustrator, Francis Craig Atwood, has been with the heart-broken little bride since early morning. Mrs. Atwood and Mrs. Chapman were schoolgirl chums whose friendship has endured to be a solace in this crushing hour. Mrs. Atwood brokenly expressed her horror at the catastrophe and added one or two touching details concerning the Chapmans' ideal married life. Their wedding—'"
Jean seized the cub reporter's "story" and read it for herself. The drummer shone a paragon of refinement in the light of her friendship and Craig's, for Atwood was not neglected; two paragraphs, indeed, were given over to a résumé of his artistic career.
Tears of mortification sprang to her eyes.