only thirty one, but he held the obsession, apparently, that this fame was fleeting, that his public was a fickle group and might abandon him at any moment, that he ought to keep his insurance up, and his unemployment benefits in good standing, just in case. In short, the hell with life, the gloomy old thing.

All this did not keep Camilla Reed from loving him. It merely kept her at her distance. As a reporter for the Gazette, she had known him publicly for five years. As the freckle-faced little girl next door (remember?), she had been acquainted with his virtues and his idiosyncrasies since childhood, and worshipped them.

The only thing was, Camilla was still freckle-faced, and she had not grown up into a ravishingly beautiful young woman, the way freckle-faced little girls do in stories. Chris Berthold did not grovel at her feet—in fact, he scarcely seemed to know that she was alive—and nobody, so far, was living happily ever after. It was most discouraging.

Girl reporters are supposed to be fascinatingly flippant. Camilla often stammered through interviews. They are supposed to be vivacious, with lovely red hair; she was quiet, diminutive, and her hair was an indeterminate shade of brown. Reporters are supposed to be ill-mannered, inconsiderate of the privacy of others, cocky, devilish. Camilla was none of these.

That was the reason she often got into places no other newsperson could, scooped ace reporters, and came away leaving a warm, co-operative glow in the hearts of important people. And she didn't even suspect it.

She was on hand, along with five hundred and seventeen other reporters the day they opened the Friendship Building to the first Congress of the Alliance. The other five hundred and seventeen reporters were collaring the delegates as they arrived, pumping them dry of words, and setting them free. Camilla was only looking for Chris Berthold.

She discovered him, at last, in the visitor's gallery, where he hadn't any business to be. She sacrificed her seat in the reserved section, tramped on three sets of toes getting out, and made for him like a homing pigeon.

The mezzanine level was crowded. Fifteen acres of milling, pleasantly buzzing humanity—and some of them not so human. She pushed her way among them, wishing, for once, that she were six inches taller. She had marked her course by a pillar, but now all pillars were beginning to look alike. It was half an hour before she found him, leaning against the railing, staring not 

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