Helen was at the telephone a long ten minutes. She returned to find her guest in a kind of stupor. His legs were stretched out; his eyes shut.
"Such a tiring day he must have had, poor darling!" was her thought, as her strong, cheerful, assured voice brought him back with a start to the moment's pressure.
"I managed to get through to the Office," she said, sitting down again to the table. "Mr. Gage, unfortunately, was not there. And, really"—a clear note of vexation began to strike through the optimism this woman of the world imposed habitually upon herself—"sometimes they can be very trying, even in Cosmos Alley. I explained what the situation was—told them just what had happened—gave them your word that the U. P. version was hopelessly inaccurate, and that on no account must it appear in tomorrow's Planet."
"Yes, yes," he said, faintly.
"Well, Mr. Sub-Editor Wingrove, hidebound little pedant"—the note of vexation was growing more dominant—"said he could not take any responsibility in the matter, but as soon as Mr. Gage arrived he would lay the facts before him."
