“That’s all right.  Good-morning.”  Miss Howe approached the door, the blue glance of Macandrew pursuant.

“No notices for two Wednesdays, eh?  We’ll have to see about that.  I was thinkin’ of transferrin’ your space to the third page; it’s a more advantageous position—­and no extra charge—­but ye’ll not mention it to Jimmy.”

Miss Howe lifted an arrogant chin.  “Do I understand you’ll do that, and guarantee regular notices, if we leave the advertisement with you?”

Mr. Macandrew looked at her expressively and tore, with a gesture of moderated recklessness, the notice of withdrawal in two.

“Rest easy,” he said, “I’ll see about it.  I’d go the len’th of attendin’ myself to-night, if ye could spare three extra places.”

“Moderate Macandrew!”

“Moderate enough.  I’ve got some frien’s stayin’ in the same place with me from Behar—­indigo people.  I was thinkin’ I’d give them a treat, if three places c’d be spared next to the Chronicle seats.”

“We do Lady Whippleton to-night and the booking’s been heavy.  Five is too many, Mr. Macandrew, even if you promise not to write the notice yourself.”

“I might pay for one—­” Macandrew drew red cartwheels on his blotting-pad.

“Those seats are sure to be gone.  I’ll send you a box.  Stanhope’s as bad as he can be with dysentery—­you might make a local out of that.  Be sure to mention he can’t see anybody—­it’s absurd the way Calcutta people want to be paid.”

“A box’ll be grand,” said Mr. Macandrew.  “I’ll see ye get plenty of ancores.  Can ye manage the door?  Good-day, then.”

Hilda stepped out on the landing.  The heavy, regular thud of the presses came up from below.  They were printing the edition that took the world’s news to planters’ bungalows in the jungle of Assam and the lonely policemen on the edge of Manipore.  The smell of the newspaper of to-day and of yesterday and of a year ago stood in the air; through an open door she saw the dusty, uneven piles of them, piled on the floor.  Three or four messengers squatted beside the wall, with slumbrous heads between their knees.  Occasionally a shout came from the room inside, and one of them, crying “Hazur!” with instant alacrity, stretched himself mightily, loafed upon his feet and went in, emerging a moment later carrying written sheets, with which he disappeared into the regions below.  The staircase took a lazy curve and went up:  under it, through an open window, the sun glistened upon the shifting white and green leaves of a pipal tree and a crow sat on the sill and thrust his grey head in with caws of indignant expostulation.  A Government peon in scarlet and gold ascended the stair at his own pace, bearing a packet with an official seal.  The place, with its ink-smeared walls and high ceilings, spoke between dusty yawns of the langour and the leisure which might attend the manipulation of the business of life, and Hilda paused for an instant to perceive