ere otherwise. But certainly not
in this instance."

Hilda gave him a gay little smile. "I suppose the editor," she said,
with a casual glance about the room, "is hammering out his leader for
to-morrow's paper. Does he write half and do you write half, or how do
you manage?"

A seriousness overspread Mr. Sinclair's countenance, which nevertheless
irradiated, as if he could not help it, with beaming eyes. "Ah, those
are the secrets of the prison-house, Miss Howe. Unfortunately it is
not etiquette for me to say in what proportion I contribute the leading
articles of the Chronicle. But I can tell you in confidence that if it
were not for the editor's prejudices--rank prejudices--it would be a
good deal larger."

"Ah, his prejudices! Why not be quite frank, Mr. Sinclair, and say that
he is just a little tiny bit jealous of his staff. All editors are,
you know." Miss Howe shook her head in philosophical deprecation of the
peccadillo, and Mr. Sinclair cast a smiling, embarrassed glance at his
smart brown leather boot. The glance was radiant with what he couldn't
tell her as a sub-editor of honour about those cruel prejudices, but he
gave it no other medium.

"I'm afraid you know the world, Miss Howe," he said, with a noble
reserve, and that was all.

"A corner of it here and there. But you are responsible for the whole of
the dramatic criticism,"--Hilda charged him roundly,--"the editor can't
claim any of THAT."

An inquiring brown face under an embroidered cap appeared at the door;
a brown hand thrust in a bunch of printed slips. Mr. Sinclair motioned
both away, and they vanished in silence.

"That I can't deny," he said. "It would be useless if I wished to
do so--my style betrays me--I must plead guilty. It is not one of my
legitimate duties--if I held this position on the Times, or say the
Daily Telegraph, our London contemporaries, it would not be required of
me. But in this country everything is piled upon the sub-editor. Many
a night, Miss Howe, I send down the last slips of a theatre notice at
midnight and am here in this chair"--Mr. Sinclair brought his open palm
down upon the arm of it--"by eleven the following day!" Mr. Sinclair's
chin was thrust passionately forward, moisture dimmed the velvety
brightness of those eyes which, in more dramatic moments, he confessed
to have inherited from a Nawab great-grandfather. "But I don't
complain," he said, and drew in his chin. It seemed to bring his
argument to a c