less he's sand-blind."

"What a tease you are. Do be quiet!" implored Erica. And then, in what
seemed to her an alarmingly short time she was actually left by herself
to beard the lion, and a clerk was assuring her that Mr. Bircham was in,
and would she walk upstairs.

For reasons best known to himself, the editor of the "Daily Review" had
his private room at the very top of the house. A sedate clerk led the
way up a dingy staircase, and Erica toiled after him, wondering how much
breath she should have left by the time she reached the end. On one of
the landings she caught sight of a sandy cat and felt a little reassured
at meeting such an every-day creature in this grim abode; she gave it a
furtive stroke as she passed, and would have felt it a protection if
she could have picked it up and taken it with her. That would have been
undignified, however, and by the time she reached the editor's room
only a very observant person could have discovered in her frank,
self-possessed manner any trace of nervousness.

So different was Mr Bircham from their preconceived notions that she
could almost have laughed at the contrast. He was very tall and pompous,
he wore a lank brown wig which looked as if it might come off at any
moment, he had little keen gray eyes which twinkled, and a broad mouth
which shut very closely; whether it was grim or humorous she could not
quite decide. He was sitting in a swivel chair, and the table strewn
with letters, and the desk with its pigeon holes crammed with papers,
looked so natural and so like her father's that she began to feel a
reassuring sense of fellowship with this entire stranger. The inevitable
paste-pot and scissors, the piles of newspapers, the books of reference,
all looked homelike to her.

Mr. Bircham rose and bowed rather formally, motioned her to a seat, and
swung round his own seat so that they faced one another. Then he scanned
her from head to foot with the sort of appraising glance to which she
was only too well accustomed a glance which said as plainly as words:
"Oh! So you are that atheist's daughter are you?"

But whatever impression Erica made upon Mr. Bircham, not a muscle of
his face altered, and he began to discuss business in a most formal and
business-like way. Things did not seem very hopeful, and Erica began to
doubt more and ore whether she had the smallest chance of acceptance.
Something in the dry formal manner of the editor struck a chill to her
heart. So