Chillingworth nodded approvingly.

"Your imagination is toning down wonderfully," he flattered him. "A
month ago you would have guessed that the mulatto lady was an
Egyptian princess' messenger sent over here to get the heart from an
American heiress as an ingredient for a complexion lotion. You're
coming on famously, Todd."

"The German poet Wieland," began Benfy, clearing his throat, "has,
in his epic of the _Oberon_ made admirable use of much the same
idea, Mr. Chillingworth--"

Yells interrupted him. Mr. Benfy was too "well-read" to be wholly
popular with the staff.

"Oh, well, the woman was crazy. That's about all," suggested
Harding, and blushed to the line of his hair.

"Yes, I guess so," assented Holt, who lifted and lowered one
shoulder as he talked, "or doped."

Chillingworth sighed and looked at them both with pursed lips.

"You two," he commented, "would get out a paper that everybody would
know to be full of reliable facts, and that nobody would buy. To be
born with a riotous imagination and then hardly ever to let it riot
is to be a born newspaper man. Provin?"

The elder giant leaned back, his eyes partly closed.