a good deal for some of the evening papers and for several of the magazines.”
“Yes,” said Hardwick, who was standing up preparatory to leaving his office, and who had not asked the young woman to sit down; “your name is familiar to me. You wrote, some months since, an account of a personal visit to the German Emperor; I forget now where it appeared.”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Baxter; “that was written for the Summer Magazine, and was illustrated by photographs.”
“It struck me,” continued Hardwick, without looking at her, “that it was an article written by a person who had never seen the German Emperor, but who had collected and assimilated material from whatever source presented itself.”
The young woman, in nowise abashed, laughed; but still the editor did not look up.
“Yes,” she admitted, “that is precisely how it was written. I never have had the pleasure of meeting William II. myself.”
“What I have always insisted upon in work submitted to me,” growled the editor in a deep voice, “is absolute accuracy. I take it that you have called to see me because you wish to do some work for this paper.”
“You are quite right in that surmise also,” answered Miss Jennie. “Still, if I may say so, there was nothing inaccurate in my article about the German Emperor. My compilation was from thoroughly authentic sources, so I maintain it was as truthfully exact as anything that has ever appeared in the Bugle.”
“Perhaps our definitions of truth might not quite coincide. However, if you will write your address on this card I will wire you if I have any work—that is, any outside work—which I think a woman can do. The woman’s column of the Bugle, as you are probably aware, is already in good hands.”
Miss Jennie seemed annoyed that all her elaborate preparations were thrown away on this man, who never raised his eyes nor glanced at her, except once, during their conversation.
“I do not aspire,” she said, rather shortly, “to the position of editor of a woman’s column. I never read a woman’s column myself, and, unlike Mr. Grant Allen, I never met a woman who did.”
She succeeded in making the editor lift his eyes towards her for the second time.
“Neither do I intend to leave you my address so that you may send a wire to me if you have anything that you think I can do. What I wish is a salaried position on your staff.”
“My good woman,” said the editor brusquely, “that is utterly impossible. I may tell you frankly that I don’t believe in women journalists. The articles we publish by women are sent to this office from their own homes. Anything that a woman can do for a newspaper I have men who will do quite as well, if not better; and there are many things that women can’t do at all which men must do. I am perfectly satisfied with my staff as it stands, Miss Baxter.”
“I think it is generally admitted,” said the young woman, “that your staff is an exceptionally good one, and is most capably led. Still, I should imagine that there are many things happening in London, society functions, for instance, where a woman would describe more accurately what she saw than any man you could send. You have no idea how full of blunders a man’s account of women’s dress is as a general rule, and if you admire accuracy as much as you say, I should think you would not care to have your paper made a laughing-stock among society ladies, who never take the trouble to write you a letter and show you where you are wrong, as men usually do when some mistake regarding their affairs is made.”
“There is probably something in what you say,” replied the editor, with an air of bringing the discussion to a close. “I don’t insist that I am right, but these are my ideas, and while I am editor of this paper I shall stand by them, so it is useless for us to discuss the matter any further, Miss Baxter. I will not have a woman as a member of the permanent staff of the Bugle.”
For the third time he looked up at her, and there was dismissal in his glance.
Miss Baxter said indignantly to herself, “This brute of a man hasn’t the slightest idea that I am one of the best dressed women he has ever met.”
But there was no trace of indignation in her voice when she said to him sweetly, “We will take that as settled. But if upon some other paper, Mr. Hardwick, I should show evidence of being as good a newspaper reporter as any member of your staff, may I come up here, and, without being kept waiting too long, tell you of my triumph?”
“You would not shake my decision,” he said.
“Oh, don’t say that,” she murmured, with a smile. “I am sure you wouldn’t like it if anyone called you a fool.”
“Called me a fool?” said the editor sharply, drawing down his dark brows. “I shouldn’t mind it in the least.”
“What, not if it were true? You know it would be true, if I could do something that all your clever men hadn’t accomplished. An editor may be a very talented man, but, after all, his mission is to see that his paper is an interesting one, and that it contains, as often as possible, something which no other sheet does.”
“Oh, I’ll see to that,” Mr. Hardwick assured her with resolute confidence.
“I am certain you will,” said Miss Baxter very sweetly; “but now you won’t refuse to let me in whenever I send up my card? I promise you that I shall not send it until I have done something which will make the whole staff of the Daily Bugle feel very doleful indeed.”
For the first time Mr. Hardwick gave utterance to a somewhat harsh and mirthless laugh.
“Oh, very well,” he said, “I’ll promise that.”
“Thank you! And good afternoon, Mr. Hardwick. I am so much obliged to you for consenting to see me. I shall call upon you at this hour to-morrow afternoon.”
There was something of triumph in her smiling bow to him, and as she left she heard a long whistle of astonishment in Mr. Hardwick’s room. She hurried down the stairs, threw a bewitching glance at the Irish porter, who came out of his den and whispered to her,—
“It’s all right, is it, mum?”
“More than all right,” she answered. “Thank you very much indeed for your kindness.”
The porter preceded her out to the waiting hansom and held his arm so that her skirt would not touch the wheel.
“Drive quickly to the Cafe Royal,” she said to the cabman.
When the hansom drew up in front of the Cafe Royal, Miss Jennie Baxter did not step put of it, but waited until the stalwart servitor in gold lace, who ornamented the entrance, hurried from the door to the vehicle. “Do you know Mr. Stoneham?” she asked with suppressed excitement, “the editor of the Evening Graphite? He is usually here playing dominoes with somebody about this hour.”
“Oh yes, I know him,” was the reply. “I think he is inside at this moment, but I will make certain.”
In a short time Mr. Stoneham himself appeared, looking perhaps a trifle disconcerted at having his whereabouts so accurately ascertained.
“What a blessing it is,” said Miss Jennie, with a laugh, “that we poor reporters know where to find our editors in a case of emergency.”
“This is no case of emergency,
