The bloke Waterbury seemed by no means pleased at this cordial form of address. He froze visibly.
“You are exceedingly late. I may mention that I have been waiting for upwards of half an hour, and my time is not without its value.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Sippy, jovially. “You wanted to see me about that article on the Elizabethan dramatists you left here yesterday, didn’t you? Well, I’ve read it, and I’m sorry to say, Waterbury, that it’s N.G. ”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No earthly use to us. Quite the wrong sort of stuff. This paper is supposed to be all light Society interest. What the débutante will wear for Goodwood, you know, and I saw Lady Betty Bootle in the Park yesterday—she is, of course, the sister-in-law of the Duchess of Peebles, ‘Cuckoo’ to her intimates—all that kind of rot. My readers don’t want stuff about Elizabethan dramatists.”
“Sipperley—!”
Old Sippy reached out and patted him in a paternal manner on the back.
“Now listen, Waterbury,” he said, kindly. “You know as well as I do that I hate to turn down an old pal. But I have my duty to the paper. Still, don’t be discouraged. Keep trying, and you’ll do fine. There is a lot of promise in your stuff, but you want to study your market. Keep your eyes open and see what editors need. Now, just as a suggestion, why not have a dash at a light, breezy article on pet dogs. You’ve probably noticed that the pug, once so fashionable, has been superseded by the Peke, the griffon, and the Sealyham. Work on that line and—”
The bloke Waterbury navigated towards the door.