“That’s the test,” he put in quickly. “That’s why I’m glad to print this editorial of ours. It’s a declaration of independence.”
“Yes,” she acquiesced eagerly.
“If ever I use the power of my editorials for any cause that I don’t believe in—yes, or for my own advantage or the advantage of my employer—that will be the beginning of surrender. But as long as I keep a free pen and speak as I believe for what I hold as right and against what I hold as wrong, I can afford to leave the advertising policy to those who control it. It isn’t my responsibility.... It’s an omen, Io; I was waiting for it. Marrineal and I are at a deadlock on the question of my control of the editorial page. This ought to furnish a fighting issue. I’m glad it came from you.”
“Oh, but if it’s going to make trouble for you, I shall be sorry. And I was going to propose that we write one every Saturday.”
“Io!” he cried. “Does that mean—”
“It means that I shall become a regular attendant at Mr. Errol Banneker’s famous Saturday nights. Don’t ask me what more it means.” She rose and delivered the typed sheets into his hands. “I—I don’t know, myself. Take me back to the others, Ban.”
To Banneker, wakened next morning to a life of new vigor and sweetness, the outcome of the mail-order editorial was worth not one troubled thought. All his mind was centered on Io.