It's a fearfully complicated phenomenon, a
newspaper, isn't it, Ban?"
"Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of a
newspaper."
"If it has a soul."
"Of course it has. It's got to have. Otherwise what is it but a
machine?"
"Which is The Patriot's; yours or Mr. Marrineal's? I can't," said Io
quaintly, "quite see them coalescing."
"I wonder if Marrineal has a soul," mused Banneker.
"If he hasn't one of his own, let him keep his hands off yours!" said Io
in a flash of feminine jealousy. "He's done enough already with his
wretched mills. What shall you do about the attack in The Summons?"
"Ignore it. It would be difficult to answer. Besides, people easily
forget."
"A dangerous creed, Ban. And a cynical one. I don't want you to be
cynical."
"I never shall be again, unless--"
"Unless?" she prompted.
"It rests with you, Io," he said quietly.
At once she took flight. "Am I to be keeper of your spirit?" she
protested. "It's bad enough to be your professional adviser. Why don't
you invite a crowd of us down to get the election returns?" she
suggested.
"Make up your party," assented Banneker. "Keep it small; say a dozen,
and we can use my office."
On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozen
friends.
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