“We have four hundred pounds of new type coming out in the Almora—she's due on Thursday,” he said. “Entirely for the advertisements. We'll have a fine display next week. It's grand type—none of your Calcutta-made stuff.”
“Pays to bring it out, does it?” asked Hilda inattentively, copying her letter.
“Pays the advertisers.” There were ingratiating qualities in the managerial smile. Hilda inspected them coldly.
“There's your notice of withdrawal,” she said. “Good-morning.”
“Think of that new type, and how lovely Jimmy Finnigan's ad will look in it.”
“That's all right. Good-morning.” Miss Howe approached the door, the blue glance of Macandrew pursuant.
“No notices for two Wednesdays, eh? We'll have to see about that. I was thinkin' of transferrin' your space to the third page; it's a more advantageous position—and no extra charge—but ye'll not mention it to Jimmy.”
Miss Howe lifted an arrogant chin. “Do I understand you'll do that, and guarantee regular notices, if we leave the advertisement with you?”
Mr. Macandrew looked at her expressively, and tore, with a gesture of moderated recklessness, the notice of withdrawal in two.
“Rest easy,” he said, “I'll see about it. I'd go the len'th of attendin' myself to-night, if ye could spare two three extra places.”