She had not told him of the Phillips episode. But she felt instinctively
that he knew. It was always a little mysterious to her, his perception
in matters pertaining to herself.
"I want your love," she said to him one day. "It helps me. I used to
think it was selfish of me to take it, knowing I could never return
it--not that love. But I no longer feel that now. Your love seems to me
a fountain from which I can drink without hurting you."
"I should love to be with you always," he answered, "if you wished it.
You won't forget your promise?"
She remembered it then. "No," she answered with a smile. "I shall keep
watch. Perhaps I shall be worthy of it by that time."
She had lost her faith in journalism as a drum for the rousing of the
people against wrong. Its beat had led too often to the trickster's
booth, to the cheap-jack's rostrum. It had lost its rallying power. The
popular Press had made the newspaper a byword for falsehood. Even its
supporters, while reading it because it pandered to their passions,
tickled their vices, and flattered their ignorance, despised and
disbelieved it.
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