I asked whether she knew of any reason for such perturbation.
"He was greatly upset," she replied, "by the stoppage of The
Albemarle Review for which he did such fine work."
I strove politely to hide my inability to condole and wagged my
head sadly:
"I'm afraid there was no room for it in a be-bombed and be-
shrapnelled world."
"I suppose the still small voice of reason would not be heard amid
the din," she sighed. "And no other papers--except the impossible
ones--would print Randall's poems and articles."
More news. This time excellent news. A publicist denied publicity
is as useful as a German Field Marshal on a desert island. I asked
what The Albemarle died of.
"Practically all the staff deserted what Randall called the Cause
and dribbled away into the army," she replied mournfully.
As to what this precious Cause meant I did not enquire, having no
wish to enter into an argument with the good lady which might have
become exacerbated. Besides, she would only have parroted Randall.
I had never yet detected her in the expression of an original
idea.
"Perhaps he has dribbled away too?" I suggested grimly. She was
silent. I bent forward.
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