Jewdwine turned over the pages gingerly, as if he feared to be polluted.  He was at the moment profoundly sorry for Rickman in this marriage of his art with Mordaunt Crawley’s.  Whatever might be said of Rickman’s radiant and impetuous genius it neither lurked nor leered; it was in no way represented by that strange and shameless figure, half Maenad, half modern courtesan, the face foreshortened, tilted back in the act of emptying a wine-cup.

“At any rate,” said Rickman, “he hasn’t lied.  He’s had the courage to be his filthy self.”

“Still, the result isn’t exactly a flattering portrait of your Muse.”

“She is a caution.  It’s quite enough to make you and Hanson lump me with Letheby and that lot.”

This touched Jewdwine in two sensitive places at once.  He objected to being “lumped” with Hanson.  He also felt that his generosity had been called in question.  For a moment the truth that was in him looked out of his grave and earnest eyes.

“I do not lump you with Letheby or anybody.  On the contrary, I think you stand by yourself.  Quite one half of this book is great poetry.”

“You really think that?”

“Yes,” said Jewdwine solemnly; “I do think it.  That’s why I deplore the appearance of the other half.  But if you had to publish, why couldn’t you bring out your Helen in Leuce?  It was far finer than anything you have here.”

“Yes.  Helen’s all right now.”  His tone implied only too plainly that she was not all right when Jewdwine had approved of her.

“Now? What on earth have you been doing to her?”

“Only putting a little life into her limbs.  But Vaughan wouldn’t have her at any price.”

“My dear Rickman, you should have come to me.  I hope to goodness Vaughan won’t tempt you into any more Saturnalia.”

“After all—­what’s wrong with them?”

Jewdwine leaned back, keenly alive to these stirrings of dissent; he withdrew, as it were, his protecting presence a foot or two farther.  He spoke slowly and with emphasis.

“Excess,” said he; “too much of everything.  Too much force, too much fire, and too much smoke with your fire.  In other words, too much temperament, too much Rickman.”

“Too much Rickman?”

“Yes; far too much.  It’s nothing but a flaming orgy of individuality.”

“And that’s why it’s all wrong?” He really wondered whether there might not be something in that view after all.

“It seems so to me.  Look here, my dear fellow.  Because a poet happens to have been drunk once or twice in his life it’s no reason why he should write a poem called Intoxication.  That sort of exhibition, you know, is scandalous.”

Rickman hung his head.  That one poem he would have given anything at the moment to recall.  It was scandalous if you came to think of it.  Only in the joy of writing it he had not thought of it; that was all.