“Will you tell me what all this is about?” said Capes. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. As he fell, he caught at the projecting masonry. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Yeah, everybody knows him Mom. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. ’ ‘That is silly. Decidedly this was imbecile. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. ‘I feared as much.
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