boy came back, and he was quite respectful, and said--'The Editor says,
please will you step up?'

We stepped up. There were a lot of stairs and passages, and a queer
sort of humming, hammering sound and a very funny smell. The boy was now
very polite, and said it was the ink we smelt, and the noise was the
printing machines.

After going through a lot of cold passages we came to a door; the boy
opened it, and let us go in. There was a large room, with a big, soft,
blue-and-red carpet, and a roaring fire, though it was only October; and
a large table with drawers, and littered with papers, just like the one
in Father's study. A gentleman was sitting at one side of the table; he
had a light moustache and light eyes, and he looked very young to be an
editor--not nearly so old as Father. He looked very tired and sleepy,
as if he had got up very early in the morning; but he was kind, and we
liked him. Oswald thought he looked clever. Oswald is considered a
judge of faces.

'Well,' said he, 'so you are Mrs Leslie's friends?'

'I think so,' said Noel; 'at least she gave us each a shilling, and she
wished us "good hunting!"'

'Good hunting, eh? Well, what about this poetry of yours? Which is the
poet?'

I can't think how he could have asked! Oswald is said to be a very
manly-looking boy for his age. However, I thought it would look
duffing to be offended, so I said--