But he was resentful of those five minutes. Young Henry Vancoutter (not so very young now, though--he must be forty!--Let me see--twenty years----), the chief proprietor, ought to have treated him with more consideration. He deserved better than to be left cooling his heels while the destinies of his paper--_his_ paper, for he if any one had made it, had lived for it for forty years, had been its unchallenged autocrat for thirty--were in the balance. The old man would never have done it, he thought, resentful of this rising generation. Never once was old Vancoutter lacking in the respect due to him, the prince of editors who had made his property one of the most valuable in the journalistic world. He wondered what the future would bring. Doubtless the policy of the paper would be changed--that was only natural, of course. They must go ahead with the times (he nerved himself for an effort that he felt would be a tax upon his strength). Yes--perhaps they had fallen a bit behind of late. The circulation was not what it was--not half what it had been fifteen years ago. They had made rather a virtue of being a trifle old-fashioned, appealing to conservative instincts. Not in the old days, certainly--but for the last twenty years. And undoubtedly they had suffered from it. He must look up the side-lines a bit--the radio-service to private subscribers, for example. He drifted on to a vague calculation of the initial cost for the service of wirelessed cinema-pictures of current events, mingled with advertisements, with which their go-ahead rival the _Lightning News_ was making so great success with hotels and flat communities. His jaw set. He would beat them on their own ground. He would show the world that the editor of the _Rostrum_ was still alive, was still a power. Yes--he was not done yet. He could not--no one could--conceive the _Rostrum_ without him. He was the paper itself. There was not the faintest possibility of his being replaced. It was unthinkable as practical near politics, as unimaginable as death itself. Such a day was, thank God, still remote. Old proprietors or new, there was no question that he was the indispensable editor. But he would have to put his shoulder to the wheel. He wondered what Betty would think of the changes. Poor old Betty! She was getting very frail, but (he thought, cheerfully) considering that she was sixty to-day she was a wonderful woman. He glanced at his watch again, fidgeted with impatience. She would be waiting for him in the car outside--very nice of the old dear to come down for him every day as she had done for now, let me see, was it five or six years past? Ever since he had had his illness. Dear old Betty! He warmed himself with the thought of the splendid fur coat he was going to buy her as a birthday present that afternoon. The door opened suddenly. Young Vancoutter uttered his name with a smile, murmured an apology, beckoned him in.