But still it didn't really count--it counted so little that when,
one day, I learned what the _Radiator_ was, I would have gone out
into the streets barefooted rather than live another hour on the
money it brought in...." Her voice sank, and she paused to steady
it. The girl at her side did not speak or move. "I shall never
forget that day," she began again. "The paper had stripped bare some
family scandal--some miserable bleeding secret that a dozen unhappy
people had been struggling to keep out of print--that _would_ have
been kept out if my husband had not--Oh, you must guess the rest! I
can't go on!"
She felt a hand on hers. "You mustn't go on, Mrs. Quentin," the girl
whispered.
"Yes, I must--I must! You must be made to understand." She drew a
deep breath. "My husband was not like Alan. When he found out how I
felt about it he was surprised at first--but gradually he began to
see--or at least I fancied he saw--the hatefulness of it. At any
rate he saw how I suffered, and he offered to give up the whole
thing--to sell the paper. It couldn't be done all of a sudden, of
course--he made me see that--for he had put all his money in it, and
he had no special aptitude for any other kind of work. He was a born
journalist--like Alan. It was a great sacrifice for him to give up
the paper, but he promised to do it--in time--when a good
opportunity offered. Meanwhile, of course, he wanted to build it up,
to increase the circulation--and to do that he had to keep on in the
same way--he made that clear to me.
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