Hilda gave him a gay little smile.  “I suppose the editor,” she said, with a casual glance about the room, “is hammering out his leader for to-morrow’s paper.  Does he write half and do you write half, or how do you manage?”

A seriousness overspread Mr. Sinclair’s countenance, which nevertheless irradiated, as if he could not help it, with beaming eyes.  “Ah, those are the secrets of the prison-house, Miss Howe.  Unfortunately it is not etiquette for me to say in what proportion I contribute the leading articles of the Chronicle.  But I can tell you in confidence that if it were not for the editor’s prejudices—­ rank prejudices—­it would be a good deal larger.”

“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, embarrassed 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 noble 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 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 daresay,” 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 threw out his hand.  “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!”