ow." 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 climax over which he looked at Hilda in warm, frank
expansion.

"Overworked, too, I dare say," she said, and then went on a trifle
hurriedly: "Well, I must tell you, Mr. Sinclair, how kind your criticism
always is, and how much I personally appreciate it. None of the little
points and effects one tries to make seem to escape you, and you are
always generous in the matter of space too."

Molyneux impartially slapped his leg. "I believe in it!" he exclaimed.
"Honour where honour is due, Miss Howe, and the Stanhope Company has
given me some very enjoyable evenings. And you'll hardly believe me, but
it is a fact, I assure you; I seldom get a free hand with those notices.
Suicidal to the interests of the paper as it is, the editor insists as
often as not on cutting down my theatre copy!"

"Cuts it down, does he? The brute!" said Miss Howe.

"I've known h