The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I am at the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally I rang off.
A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what?
“The editor of the—”
“No,” I answered as politely as I could. “I am extremely sorry. You see, I have just refused to be interviewed by The Morning, and it would hardly be fair to that journal if... Oh, The Morning was a paper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, but still... no... no... I was really sorry... I could not... I...”
I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were four gentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if—
“Tell them,” I interrupted, “that I cannot see them. And, John—”
“Sir?”
“I am not at home to anybody—anybody at all. You understand?”
“Quite, sir.”
I noticed that his tone was not quite as deferential as usual. I knew the reason. Of course he had seen this odious paper, or some paper more odious still. Probably he and the other servants in the building had been discussing me, and hazarding all sorts of wildly improbable stories about me.