“Oh, no! You must not suppose that. I come to you quite of my own accord.”
“Why this extreme interest in The Guardian, Miss Ames?”
“Because I—There is a reason for—Circumstances—”
“Over which you have no control,” suggested her vis-à-vis.
“Over which I have no control,” she accepted, and her hand went to her throat—(Mr. Montrose Clark, seeing the swift color pulse into her face, discarded Andrew Galpin from consideration and came back to Jeremy Robson and wondered whether that pernicious journalist knew how lucky he was), “have given me a—an interest, a responsibility—” Marcia Ames was experiencing unwonted difficulties in explaining what was perhaps not fundamentally clear to herself.
“I see,” answered the magnate mendaciously.
“If you saw as I see,” she retorted earnestly, “you would not be opposing and trying to ruin The Guardian.”
“But bless my soul, my dear young lady! That is precisely what The Guardian has been doing to me. You have n’t been reading it these few years past.”
“Oh, yes. Every day. I do not pretend to understand that part of it. But I do know this; that Mr. Rob—that The Guardian is making a fight single-handed for the Nation and the war, and is being beaten because those who should stand by it are not patriotic enough to forget old scores. Have you stopped to think of that, Mr. Clark?” The magnate shifted uncomfortably in his seat. To say that he had stopped to think of this would be untrue. Rather, the thought had essayed to stop him and force itself on his consideration with increasing pertinacity of late, and he had barely contrived to dodge it and go on about his lawful occasions. Now it challenged him in the clear regard of a very beautiful and very determined young woman.
“No. Yes,” said Montrose Clark, and left that for her to take her pick of. “One would n’t think you the kind to take such an interest in politics.”