"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 he
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.
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