Part 14 (1/2)

”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, embarra.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sionately 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sure 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 him sacrifice a third of it for an indigo market report.

Now, I ask you, who reads an indigo market report? n.o.body. Who wants to know how Jimmy Finnigan's--how the Stanhope Company's latest novelties went off? Everybody. Of course, when he does that sort of thing, I make it warm for him next morning.”

The door again opened and admitted a hara.s.sed little Babu in spectacles, bearing a sheaf of proof slips, who advanced timidly into the middle of the room and paused.

”In a few minutes, Babu,” said Mr. Sinclair; ”I am engaged.”

”It iss the Council isspeech of the Legal Member, sir, and it iss to go at five p. m. to his house for last correction.”

”Presently, Babu. Don't interrupt. As I was saying, Miss Howe, I make it warm for him till he apologises. I must say he always apologises, and I don't often ask more than that. But I was obliged to tell him the last time that if it happened again one of us would have to go.”

”What did he say to that?”

”I don't exactly remember. But it had a tremendous effect--tremendous.

We became good friends almost immediately.”

”Quite so. We miss you when you don't come, Mr. Sinclair--last Sat.u.r.day night, for example.”

”I _had_ to go to the Surprise Party. Jimmy came here with tears in his eyes that morning. 'My show is tumbling to pieces,' he said. 'Sinclair, you've got to come to-night.' Made me dine with him--wouldn't let me out of his sight. We had to send a reporter to you and Llewellyn that night.”

”Mr. Sinclair, the notice made me weep.”

”I know. All that about the costumes. But what can you expect? The man is as black as your hat.”

”We have to buy our own costumes,” said Hilda, with a glance at the floor, ”and we haven't any too much, you know, to do it on.”

”The toilettes in _Her Second Son_ were simply magnificent. Not to be surpa.s.sed on the boards of the Lyceum in tasteful design or richness of material. They were _ne plus ultra_!” cried Mr. Sinclair. ”You will remember I said so in my critique.”

”I remember. If I were you I wouldn't go so far another time. There's a lot of cotton velvet and satin about it, you know, between ourselves, and Finnigan's people will be getting the laugh on us. That's one of the things I wanted to mention. Don't be quite so good to us. See?

Otherwise--well, you know how Calcutta talks, and what a pretty girl Beryl Stacey is, for example. Mrs. Sinclair mightn't like it, and I don't blame her.”

”As I said before, Miss Howe, you know the world.”

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