After we had sent in our card and waited for a few hours in the marbled
ante-room, a bell rang and the major-domo, parting the priceless
curtains, ushered us in to where the editor sat writing at his desk. We
advanced on all fours, knocking our head reverently on the Aubusson
carpet.
"Well?" he said at length, laying down his jewelled pen.
"We just looked in," we said, humbly, "to ask if it would be all right
if we sent you an historical story."
"The public does not want historical stories," he said, frowning
coldly.
"Ah, but the public hasn't seen one of ours!" we replied.
The editor placed a cigarette in a holder presented to him by a
reigning monarch, and lit it with a match from a golden box, the gift
of the millionaire president of the Amalgamated League of Working
Plumbers.
"What this magazine requires," he said, "is red-blooded,
one-hundred-per-cent dynamic stuff, palpitating with warm human
interest and containing a strong, poignant love-motive."
"That," we replied, "is us all over, Mabel."
"What I need at the moment, however, is a golf story."
"By a singular coincidence, ours is a golf story."
"Ha! say you so?" said the editor, a flicker of interest passing over
his finely-chiselled features. "Then you may let me see it."
He kicked us in the face, and we withdrew.