as your hat."

"We have to buy our own costumes," said Hilda, with a glance at the
floor, "and we haven't any too much, you know, to do it on."

"The toilets in Her Second Son were simply magnificent. Not to be
surpassed on the boards of the Lyceum in tasteful design or richness
of material. They were ne plus ultra!" cried Mr. Sinclair. "You will
remember I said so in my critique."

"I remember. If I were you I wouldn't go so far another time. There's
a lot of cotton velvet and satin about it, you know, between ourselves,
and Finnigan's people will be getting the laugh on us. That's one of
the things I wanted to mention. Don't be quite so good to us. See?
Otherwise--well, you know how Calcutta talks, and what a pretty girl
Beryl Stace is, for example. Mrs. Sinclair mightn't like it, and I don't
blame her."

"As I said before, Miss Howe, you know the world," Mr. Sinclair replied,
with infinite mellow humour, and as Miss Howe had risen he rose too,
pulling down his waistcoat.

"There was just one other thing," Hilda said, holding out her hand.
"Next Wednesday, you know, Rosa Norton takes her benefit. Rosy's as
well known here as the Ochterlony monument; she's been coming every cold
weather for ten years, poor old Rosy. Don't you think you could do her
a bit of an interview for Wednesday's paper? She'll write up very
well--get her on variety entertainments in the Australian bush."

Mr. Molyneux Sinclair looked pained to hesitate. "Personally," he said
confidentially, "I should like it immensely, and I daresay 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 apartme