in is editorial dignity. But go on with your work. Don't mind me."

Thus admonished, the editor again bent over his desk, and his friend
softly took up his suspended song. The editor had not proceeded far in
his corrections when Jack's voice again broke the silence.

"Where are those d----d verses, anyway?"

Without looking up, the editor waved his pencil towards an uncut copy of
the "Excelsior Magazine" lying on the table.

"You don't suppose I'm going to READ them, do you?" said Jack,
aggrievedly. "Why don't you say what they're about? That's your business
as editor."

But that functionary, now wholly lost and wandering in the non-sequitur
of an involved passage in the proof before him, only waved an impatient
remonstrance with his pencil and knit his brows. Jack, with a sigh, took
up the magazine.

A long silence followed, broken only by the hurried rustling of sheets
of copy and an occasional exasperated start from the editor. The sun
was already beginning to slant a dusty beam across his desk; Jack's
whistling had long since ceased. Presently, with an exclamation of
relief, the editor laid aside the last proof-sheet and looked up.

Jack Hamlin had closed the magazine, but with one hand thrown over the
back of the sofa he was still holding it, his slim forefinger between
its leaves to keep the place, and his handsome profile and dark
lashes lifted towards the window. The editor, smiling at this unwonted