"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.
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