"Diana," he said, abruptly, "when you were talking to me this
afternoon, you spoke of the Brown matter in the plural. Was there more
than one article about me?"
Diana turned her tender eyes to Enoch's. "Let's not spoil this
beautiful evening," she pleaded.
"I don't want to bother you, Diana. Just tell me the facts and we'll
drop it."
"I'd rather not talk about it," replied Diana.
"Please, Diana! Whatever fight I have down here, whatever conclusion I
reach, I want to work with my eyes open, so that my decisions shall be
final. I don't want to have to revamp and revise when I get out."
"As far as I know," said Diana, in a low voice, "there was but one
other reference to the matter. The day after the first article
appeared, Brown published a photograph of you and me in front of a
Johnstown lunch place. There was a long caption, which said that you
had always been proud that you were slum-reared and a woman hater.
That you had persisted in keeping some of your early habits, perhaps
out of bravado. That Miss Allen was an intimate friend, the only woman
friend you had made and kept. That was all."
"All!" echoed Enoch. The pale, silver landscape danced in a crimson
mist before him. He stood, clenching and unclenching his fists,
breathing rapidly.
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