ran me up the little passage, and flung me over the waste-paper basket into the arm-chair in his office. "Pray be seated," he said, as he did so. Then he ran across the room and came back with some pink and yellow tickets and pushed them into my hand. "Opera Comique," he said, "Thursday; Friday, the Surrey; Saturday, the Frivolity. That's all, I think."
"But"—I began.
"Glad you're free," he said, snatching some proofs off the desk and beginning to read.
"I don't quite understand," I said.
"Eigh?" he said, at the top of his voice, as though he thought I had gone, and was startled at my remark.
"Do you want me to criticise these plays?"
"Do something with 'em…. Did you think it was a treat?"
"But I can't."
"Did you call me a fool?"
"Well, I've never been to a theatre in my life."
"Virgin soil."
"But I don't know anything about it, you know."
"That's just it. New view. No habits. No clichés in stock. Ours is a live paper, not a bag of tricks. None of your clockwork professional journalism in this office. And I can rely on your integrity"—
"But I've conscientious scruples"—
He caught me up suddenly and put me outside his door. "Go and talk to Wembly about that," he said. "He'll explain."
As I stood perplexed, he opened the door again,
