“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 humorously 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.”

“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 two 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 promised 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.”