"Bess, do you think that fair?" and Dorothy's face put on a reproachful
red.

"At least it's true," returned Bess composedly.

That morning Richard had been flattered with a letter from the editor of
a magazine, asking for a five-thousand word article on a leading
personality of the Cabinet. This helped him bear the raillery of Bess;
and the raillery, per incident, told him how much and deeply he was in
the thoughts of Dorothy, which information made the world extremely
beautiful. Richard had waited until his thirtieth year to begin to live!
He was brought back from a dream of Dorothy by the unexpected projection
of Mr. Fopling into the conversation.

"The _Daily Tory_!" repeated Mr. Fopling, in feeble disgust. "I hate
newspapahs; they inflame the mawsses."

"Inflame what?" asked Richard.

"Inflame the mawsses! the common fellahs!"

Mr. Fopling was emphatic; and when Mr. Fopling was emphatic he squeaked.
Mr. Fopling's father had been a beef contractor. Likewise he had seen
trouble with investigating committees, being convicted of bad beef. This
may or may not have had to do with the younger Fopling's aversion to the
press.

"Certainly," coincided Bess, again assuming the maternal, "the
newspapers are exceedingly inflammatory."