know the world."

Mr. Sinclair replied with infinite mellow humour, and as Miss Howe had
risen, he rose too, pulling down his waistcoat.

"There was just one other thing," Hilda said, holding out her hand.
"Next Wednesday, you know, Rosa Norton takes her benefit. Rosy's as well
known here as the Ochterlony monument; she's been coming every cold
weather for ten years, poor old Rosy. Don't you think you could do her a
bit of an interview for Wednesday's paper? She'll write up very
well--get her on variety entertainments in the Australian bush."

Mr. Molyneux Sinclair looked pained to hesitate. "Personally," he said,
confidentially, "I should like it immensely, and I dare say I could get
it past the editor. But we're so short-handed."

Miss Howe held up a forefinger which seemed luminous with solution.
"Don't you bother," she said, "I'll do it for you; I'll write it myself.
My 'prentice hand I'll try on Rosy, and you shall have the result ready
to print on Tuesday morning. Will that do?"

That would do supremely. Mr. Sinclair could not conceal the admiration
he felt for such a combination of talents. He did not try; he
accompanied it to the door, expanding and expanding until it seemed more
than ever obvious that he found the sub-editorial sphere unreasonably
contracted. Hilda received his final bow from the threshold of what he
called his "sanctum," and had hardly left the landing in descent when a
square-headed, collarless, red-faced male in shirt-sleeves came down,
descending, as it seemed, in bounds from parts above. "Damn it,
Sinclair," she heard as he shot into the apartment she had left, "here's
the whole council-meeting report set up and waiting three-quarters of an
hour--press blocked; and the printer-Babu says he can get nothing out of
you. What the devil.... If the _dak's_[7] missed again, by thunder!...
paid to converse with itinerant females ... seven columns ... infernal
idiocy."

[Footnote 7: Country post.]

Hilda descended in safety and at leisure, reflecting with some amusement
as she made her way down that Mr. Sinclair was doubtless waiting until
his lady visitor was well out of earshot to make it warm for the editor.

CHAPTER XII.

I find myself wondering whether Calcutta would have found anything very
exquisitely amusing in the satisfactions which exchanged themselves
between Mr. Llewellyn Stanhope's leading lady and the Reverend Stephen
Arnold, had if been aware of them, and I conclu