the romance and the whole thing
was handled in the most approved yellow-journal style. There was a
picture of Lester obtained from his Cincinnati photographer for a
consideration; Jennie had been surreptitiously "snapped" by a staff
artist while she was out walking.

And so, apparently out of a clear sky, the story
appeared--highly complimentary, running over with sugary phrases,
but with all the dark, sad facts looming up in the background. Jennie
did not see it at first. Lester came across the page accidentally, and
tore it out. He was stunned and chagrined beyond words. "To think the
damned newspaper would do that to a private citizen who was quietly
minding his own business!" he thought. He went out of the house, the
better to conceal his deep inward mortification. He avoided the more
populous parts of the town, particularly the down-town section, and
rode far out on Cottage Grove Avenue to the open prairie. He wondered,
as the trolley-car rumbled along, what his friends were
thinking--Dodge, and Burnham Moore, and Henry Aldrich, and the
others. This was a smash, indeed. The best he could do was to put a
brave face on it and say nothing, or else wave it off with an
indifferent motion of the hand. One thing was sure--he would
prevent further comment. He returned to the house calmer, his
self-poise restored, but he was eager for Monday to come in order that
he might get in touch with his lawyer, Mr. Watson. But when he did see
Mr. Watson it was soon agreed between the two men that it would be
foolish to take any legal action. It was the part of wisdom to let the
matter drop. "But I won't stand for anything more," concluded
Lester.

"I'll attend to that," said the lawyer, consolingly.

Lester got up. "It's amazing--this damned country of ours!" he
exclaimed. "A man with a little money hasn't any more privacy than a
public monument."

"A man with a little money," said Mr. Watson, "is just like a cat
with a bell around its neck. Every rat knows exactly where it is and
what it is doing."

"That's an apt simile," assented Lester, bitterly.

Jennie knew nothing of this newspaper story for several days.
Lester felt that he could not talk it over, and Gerhardt never read
the wicked Sunday newspapers. Finally, one of Jennie's neighborhood
friends, less tactful than the others, called her attention to the
fact of its appearance by announcing that she had seen it. Jennie did
not understand at first. "A story about me?"