“A hundred rupees, maybe—­there or thereabouts,” and Mr. Macandrew, with a vast show of indifference, picked up a letter and began to tear at the end of it.

“One hundred and fifty-five, I think, to be precise.  That communication will wait, won’t it?  What is it—­Kally Nath Mitter’s paper and stores bill?  You won’t be able to pay it any quicker if we withdraw our advertisement.”

“Why should ye withdraw it?”

“It was given to you on the understanding that notices should appear of every Wednesday and Saturday’s performance.  For two Wednesdays there has been no notice, and last Saturday night you sent a fool.”

“So Muster Stanhope thinks o’ withdrawin’ his advertisement?”

“He is very much of that mind.”

The manager put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, leaned back in his chair, and demonstrated the principle that had given him a gold watch chain—­“Never be bluffed.”

“Ye can withdraw it,” he said, with a warily experimental eye upon her.

“How reasonable of you not to make a fuss!  We’ll have the order to discontinue in writing, please.  If you give me a pen and paper—­thanks—­and I’ll keep a copy.”

“Stanhope has wanted to transfer it to the Market Gazette for some time,” she went on as she wrote.

“That’s not a newspaper.  You’ll get no notices there.”

“Cheaper on that account, probably.”

“They charge like the very deevil.  D’ye know the rates of them?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“There’s a man on our staff that doesn’t like your show.  We’ll be able to send him every night now.”

“When we withdraw our advertisement?”

“Just then.”

“All right,” said Hilda.  “It will be interesting to point out in the Indian Empire the remarkable growth of independent criticism in the Chronicle since Mr. Stanhope no longer uses the space at his disposal.  I hope your man will be very nasty indeed.  You might as well hand over the permanent passes—­the gentleman will expect, I suppose, to pay.”

“They’ll be in the yeditorial department,” said Mr. Macandrew, but he did not summon a messenger to go for them.  Instead he raised his eyebrows in a manner that expressed the necessity of making the best of it, and humourously scratched his head.

“We have four hundred pounds of new type coming out in the Almora—­she’s due on Thursday,” he said.  “Entirely for the advertisements.  We’ll have a fine display next week.  It’s grand type—­none of your Calcutta-made stuff.”

“Pays to bring it out, does it?” asked Hilda, inattentively, copying her letter.

“Pays the advertisers.”  There were ingratiating qualities in the managerial smile.  Hilda inspected them coldly.

“There’s your notice of withdrawal,” she said.  “Good-morning.”

“Think of that new type, and how lovely Jimmy Finnigan’s ad. will look in it.”