"Hallo, old boy, what are you doing here? That you, Andrews?"
Toni moved forward from the shadow, and beneath the dark cloak which had deceived him he caught the pale glimmer of her skirt.
"No, Owen. It is I, Toni."
"You? Why, what are you doing here? Oh, I see—you brought Jock for a run. Well, it's quite warm to-night—but the air has the feel of rain."
"Yes. I thought I felt a drop just now."
"Did you? Well, we'll get indoors. I'm sorry I am so late, dear, but there's been trouble at the office. Oh, nothing much, only Hart, our new sub-editor, had chosen to return an article we'd commissioned, because he said it was not up to our usual level."
"And wasn't it?" Toni's forlorn heart welcomed his friendly tone.
"Of course it was. It was about the best stuff young Lewis had ever turned out—and a fool like Hart, whose taste is distinctly precious, hasn't the wit to appreciate good, clean, straightforward English. He likes a mass of involved, wordy stuff that only the high-brows can understand."
He broke off laughing.
"Well, anyway we sent for it back in double-quick time; but Lewis had taken the huff and didn't want us to have it. So Hart had to apologize—which he didn't enjoy—and altogether the place was in a ferment."