"
Mr. Molyneux Sinclair looked pained to hesitate. "Personally," he said,
confidentially, "I should like it immensely, and I dare say I could get
it past the editor. But we're so short-handed."
Miss Howe held up a forefinger which seemed luminous with solution.
"Don't you bother," she said, "I'll do it for you; I'll write it myself.
My 'prentice hand I'll try on Rosy, and you shall have the result ready
to print on Tuesday morning. Will that do?"
That would do supremely. Mr. Sinclair could not conceal the admiration
he felt for such a combination of talents. He did not try; he
accompanied it to the door, expanding and expanding until it seemed more
than ever obvious that he found the sub-editorial sphere unreasonably
contracted. Hilda received his final bow from the threshold of what he
called his "sanctum," and had hardly left the landing in descent when a
square-headed, collarless, red-faced male in shirt-sleeves came down,
descending, as it seemed, in bounds from parts above. "Damn it,
Sinclair," she heard as he shot into the apartment she had left, "here's
the whole council-meeting report set up and waiting three-quarters of an
hour--press blocked; and the printer-Babu says he can get nothing out of
you.
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