In the gloom of a dark corner by the window, at a high desk that stood against the wall, where he sat perched on a tall office stool with his feet curled round its long legs, a small boy ceased reading, and, fumbling about in the breast-pocket of his short Eton jacket, lugged out a tin box, struck a match, and, leaning forward, set a flame to the gas-jet. The place leaped into light. The youngster flung the matchbox across the room, and went on with his reading. It fell at the feet of the yellow-haired youth. “Ah, Noll,” said he, stooping over and searching for it amongst the torn fragments of paper, “like those of even greater genius, our aims are only too often lost in the sea of wasted endeavour.” He found the box; lit the gas at his right hand; coughed: “Are you putting that down?” he asked drily of the grim unanswering silence. The boy took no notice. The yellow-haired youth chuckled, and the deep-furrowed lines about his mouth broadened into a quizzical smile. The boy Oliver could scarcely have been fourteen years of age, and had he not been son of the editor, and that editor the thriftless owner of but a very broken-winged Muse, and of a steadily diminishing literary property, the boy must still have been at school. He sighed heavily, rousing from his reading: “I say, Netherby,” said he, “here’s a poem by that fellow with the hair.” He held out the manuscript. Netherby Gomme looked up: “A lyric?” he asked. “No. Drivel.” Netherby Gomme sighed, and sat back in his chair: “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: “What is it owing to, Netherby? I’m such a beastly poor liar. You’ve been on the press so much longer. Hustle your vivid imagination and chuck us an excuse.” Netherby Gomme shook his head: “I am only a humorist, Oliver--humour must walk knee-deep in truth. I do not travel on Romance----”