Frederick returned presently and reported: "They say they will do themselves the honor to inform you in person if you will be kind enough to see them. And, Miss--" He paused. He had exceeded his duty.
"What is it, Frederick?" asked Grace, knowing that the imperturbable cockney was perturbed.
"There is quite a crowd outside. They are photographing the ladies, ma'am."
"Begging your pardon, Miss Vandergilt and the others, ma'am."
"Just in front of the door. Mr. Goodchild had some trouble in getting in, ma'am. He's quite vexed about it, but it wasn't my fault, ma'am," he said, forgetting that he was a menial; that is, protesting against injustice. "I couldn't help it, ma'am."
"Very well, Frederick," she said, graciously, and descended.
Five reporters were politely listening to Mr. Goodchild's vituperations. Therefore his daughter walked down the stairs as majesty descends from the dais. One of the reporters started to meet her half-way.
"Hey! confound you, come down!" shrieked papa.
"Miss Goodchild, we wished to ask you if you had been chosen as the first of the perfectly beautiful hundred. Now that we have seen you at close range, the question is unnecessary."
She smiled slightly; then ceased to smile. The intelligent young man proceeded courteously: "Will you therefore kindly tell us when the wedding will be?"
All reporters are psychologists in their interrogations. The other reporters ceased listening to Mr. Goodchild and as politely as the circumstances permitted took out paper and pencils.
When an angry man is suddenly deprived of his audience he becomes a mental assassin.
"She'll never marry that infernal idiot!" he shrieked. He was the head of the house.
"Ah yes," said the diplomatist on the stair, looking as though he had memorized the exact words. "Ah yes! June! Thank you." He nodded gratefully at Mr. Goodchild, jotted down a date, and put the paper in his pocket.
"Congratulations, Miss Goodchild," he said to her, with profound respect, and descended. In the hall he said to his colleagues: "Come on, boys. We've got the month. She _is_ Number One, and--"
"If you dare to print anything I'll have you fired," fumed Mr. Goodchild.
"If you were a younger man I'd tell you to fire your grandmother, sir. But I fear me she is, alas! no more. In the mean time, Mr. Goodchild, will you be good enough to pose for our artist? Look pleasant, please. You'll have to close your mouth to do it. Wilson, you may begin filming when ready!" he said to his photographer, who had just pushed past Frederick.