MR EDWARD NUTT, the industrious editor of the Daily Reformer,sat at his desk, opening letters and marking proofs to the merry tune of atypewriter, worked by a vigorous young lady.He was a stoutish, fair man, in his shirt-sleeves; his movements wereresolute, his mouth firm and his tones final; but his round, rather babyishblue eyes had a bewildered and even wistful look that rather contradictedall this. Nor indeed was the expression altogether misleading. It mighttruly be said of him, as for many journalists in authority, that his mostfamiliar emotion was one of continuous fear; fear of libel actions, fear oflost advertisements, fear of misprints, fear of the sack.His life was a series of distracted compromises between theproprietor of the paper (and of him), who was a senile soap-boiler withthree ineradicable mistakes in his mind, and the very able staff he hadcollected to run the paper; some of whom were brilliant and experiencedmen and (what was even worse) sincere enthusiasts for the political policyof the paper.A letter from one of these lay immediately before him, and rapid andresolute as he was, he seemed almost to hesitate before opening it. He tookup a strip of proof instead, ran down it with a blue eye, and a blue pencil,altered the word "adultery" to the word "impropriety," and the word "Jew"to the word "Alien," rang a bell and sent it flying upstairs.Then, with a more thoughtful eye, he ripped open the letter from hismore distinguished contributor, which bore a postmark of Devonshire, andread as follows:DEAR NUTT,--As I see you're working Spooks and Dooks at thesame time, what about an article on that rum business of the Eyres ofExmoor; or as the old women call it down here, the Devil's Ear of Eyre?The head of the family, you know, is the Duke of Exmoor; he is one of thefew really stiff old Tory aristocrats left, a sound old crusted tyrant it isquite in our line to make trouble about. And I think I'm on the track of a