“With what candid brutality the sub-editorial mind treats the most ecstatic flights of the imagination!” said he.
The boy Oliver shifted impatiently on his high stool:
“Shall I reject the ponderous rot?” he asked.
Netherby Gomme coughed:
“We—if you please, Oliver—we. It is always better to adopt the editorial we in matters of weight; and it throws the responsibility upon the irresponsible gods of journalism.”
Noll sighed, stretched himself, and yawned.
“All right. We’ll reject it, eh?... No good troubling the governor”—he jerked his thumb towards the editor’s room—“he’s so beastly short this afternoon. But I had better write the rejection, I suppose—the father doesn’t like poets to be rejected on the printed form—they’re so sensitive.”
He settled himself to write a letter, tongue in cheek, head down, and quoting for the other’s approval as he wrote:
“The—editor—regrets—that—whilst—he—appreciates—the—beauty of—the—lines—herewith—returned—he—is—unable—to—make—use of—them—owing—to——”
He came to a halt and invited the prompt. None coming, he glanced over his shoulder: