“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 him sacrifice a third of it for an indigo market report.  Now, I ask you, who reads an indigo market report?  Nobody.  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 harassed 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.”