“Oh, we newspaper men go everywhere.”
“And we politicians, too; but honestly, what are you doing here?”
“Well,” said Doane, rubbing his hands in grim satisfaction, “I don’t mind telling you; a little private vengeance.”
“Upon whom?” queried Connors.
“Ouida Angelo. You were present when I received that insulting blow on her account?”
“Yes, and by heavens, you brought it on yourself.”
“Never mind that,” said the editor. “I feel the sting yet, and while I cannot pay her back in kind, I can twist and probe her pride, and I’ll do it, too. She lives in that miserable hovel over there,” pointing to the place. “I am going to visit her.”
“You astound me,” said Connors. He himself was bent upon the same mission, yet was not inspired by so ignoble a purpose.
Doane continued: “She has become an object almost of public pity. When the haughty creature abandoned her husband, almost at the altar, and began a life of shame with her lover, even rotten New York society rebelled and frowned her down.”
“Yes, it is but too true. The world, when once aroused, is cold in its judgment. But I did not know that she had been so frightfully reduced.”