ht of quitting Turnhill before
the _Chronicle_ was definitely out. She had lived for the moment of its
publication, and she could not bear to miss it. She was almost angry
with her mother; she was certainly angry with Miss Gailey. All the
egotism of the devotee in her was aroused and irate.

Then the men came forth from the inner room, with a rather unexpected
suddenness. Mr. Cannon appeared first; and after him Mr. Enville; lastly
Arthur Dayson, papers in hand. Intimidated by the presence of the
stranger, Hilda affected to be busy at her table. Mr. Enville shook
hands very amicably with George Cannon, and instantly departed. As he
passed down the stairs she caught sight of him; he was a grizzled man of
fifty, lean and shabby, despite his reputation for riches. She knew that
he was a candidate for the supreme position of Chief Bailiff at the end
of the year, and he did not accord with her spectacular ideal of a Chief
Bailiff; the actual Chief Bailiff was a beautiful and picturesque old
man, with perfectly tended white whiskers, and always a flower in his
coat. Further, she could not reconcile this nearly effusive friendliness
between Mr. Enville and Mr. Cannon with the animadversions of the
leading article which Arthur Dayson had composed, and Mr. Cannon had
approved, only twenty-four hours earlier.

As Mr. Cannon shut the door at the head of the stairs, she saw him give
a discreet, disdainful wink to Dayson. Then he turned sharply to Hilda,
and said, thoughtful and stern:

"Your notebook, please."

Bracing herself, and still full of pride in her ability to write this
mysterious shorthand, she opened her notebook, and waited with poised
pencil. The mien of the two men had communicated to her an excitement
far surpassing their own, in degree and in felicity. The whole of her
vital force was concentrated at the point of her pencil, and she seemed
to be saying to herself: "I'm very sorry, mother, but see how important
this is! I shall consider what I can do for you the very moment I am
free."

Arthur Dayson coughed and plumped heavily on a chair.

II

It was in such moments as this that Dayson really lived, with all the
force of his mediocrity. George Cannon was not a journalist; he could
compose a letter, but he had not the trick of composing an article. He
felt, indeed, a negligent disdain for the people who possessed this
trick, as for performers in a circus; he certainly did not envy them,
for he knew that h