The others, with a certain disregard of her offence, sat around the Sea Lady's couch—she had scarcely touched her breakfast—and canvassed the coming terror.
"They will put our photographs in the papers," said the elder Miss Bunting.
"Well, they won't put mine in," said her sister. "It's horrid. I shall go right off now and have it taken again."
"They'll interview the Ded!"
"No, no," said Mr. Bunting terrified. "Your mother———"
"It's your place, my dear," said Mrs. Bunting.
"But the Ded—" said Fred.
"I couldn't," said Mr. Bunting.
"Well, some one'll have to tell 'em anyhow," said Mrs. Bunting. "You know, they will———"
"But it isn't at all what I wanted," wailed the Sea Lady, with the Daily Gunfire in her hand. "Can't it be stopped?"
"You don't know our journalists," said Fred.
The tact of my cousin Melville saved the situation. He had dabbled in journalism and talked with literary fellows like myself. And literary fellows like myself are apt at times to be very free and outspoken about the press. He heard of the Buntings' shrinking terror of publicity as soon as he arrived, a perfect clamour—an almost exultant clamour indeed, of shrinking terror, and he caught the Sea Lady's eye and took his line there and then.
"It's not an occasion for sticking at trifles, Mrs. Bunting," he said. "But I think we can save the
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