“Never mind,” said Hilda, again wrapped in thought, “don't apologise—it's near enough. Well, Mr. Macandrew,”—her tone came to a point,—“what is the Stanhope Company's advertisement worth a month to the Chronicle?”
“A hundred rupees maybe—there or thereabouts;” and Mr. Macandrew, with a vast show of indifference, picked up a letter and began to tear at the end of it.
“One hundred and fifty-five I think, to be precise. That communication will wait, won't it? What is it—Kally Nath Mitter's paper and stores bill? You won't be able to pay it any quicker if we withdraw our advertisement.”
“Why should ye withdraw it?”
“It was given to you on the understanding that notices should appear of every Wednesday and Saturday's performance. For two Wednesdays there has been no notice, and last Saturday night you sent a fool.”
“So Muster Stanhope thinks o' withdrawin' his advertisement?”
“He is very much of that mind.”
The manager put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, leaned back in his chair, and demonstrated the principle that had given him a gold watch chain—“never be bluffed.”
“Ye can withdraw it,” he said, with a warily experimental eye upon her.
“How reasonable of you not to make a fuss! We'll have the order to discontinue in writing, please. If you'll give me a pen and paper—thanks—and I'll keep a copy.”