The disciple caught fire from the master’s enthusiasm; he approved, aspired, exulted.  His heart was big with belief in Jewdwine and his work.  Being innocent himself of any sordid taint, he admired above all things what he called his friend’s intellectual chastity.  Jewdwine felt the truth of what Lucia had told him.  He could count absolutely on Rickman’s devotion.  He arrived by well-constructed stages at the offer of the sub-editorship.

Rickman looked up with a curious uncomprehending stare.  When he clearly understood the proposal that was being made to him, he flushed deeply and showed unmistakable signs of agitation.

“Do you think,” said Jewdwine discreetly, “you’d care to try it for a time?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Rickman thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s only an experiment.  I’m not offering you anything permanent.”

“Of course, that makes all the difference.”

“It does; if it isn’t good enough—­”

“You don’t understand me.  That’s what would make it all right.”

“Make what all right?”

“My accepting—­if you really only want a stop-gap.”

“I see,” said Jewdwine to himself, “the youth has tasted liberty, and he objects to being caught and caged.”

“The question is,” said Rickman, sinking into thought again, “whether you really want me.”

“My dear fellow, why on earth should I say so if I didn’t?”

“N—­no.  Only I thought, after the mess I’ve made of things, that none of your family would ever care to have anything to do with me again.”  It was the nearest he had come to mentioning Lucia Harden, and the pain it cost him was visible on his face.

“My family,” said Jewdwine with a stiff smile, “will not have anything to do with you.  It has nothing to do with The Museion.

“In that case, I don’t see why I shouldn’t try it, if I can be of any use to you.”  From the calmness of his manner you would have supposed that salaried appointments hung on every lamp-post, ready to drop into the mouths of impecunious young men of letters.

“Thanks.  Then we’ll consider that settled for the present.”

Impossible to suppose that Rickman was not properly grateful.  Still, instead of thanking Jewdwine, he had made Jewdwine thank him.  And he had done it quite unconsciously, without any lapse from his habitual sincerity, or the least change in his becoming attitude of modesty.  Jewdwine considered that what Maddox had qualified as Rickman’s colossal cheek was simply his colossal ignorance; not to say his insanely perverted view of the value of salaried appointments.

“Oh,” said he, “I shall want you as a contributor, too.  I don’t know how you’ll work in with the rest, but we shall see.  I won’t have any but picked men.  The review has always stood high; but I want it to stand higher.  It isn’t a commercial speculation.  There’s no question of making it pay.  It must keep up its independence whether it can afford it or not.  We’ve been almost living on Vaughan’s advertisements.  All the same, I mean to slaughter those new men he’s got hold of.”