This great change in the organization of the review called for certain corresponding changes in its staff.  And it was here that Rickman came in.  He had been retained on The Museion partly in recognition of his brilliance, partly by way of satisfying the claims of Jewdwine’s magnanimity.  On The Museion he had not proved plastic either as sub-editor or as contributor.  He did not fit in well with the traditions of the paper; for he was, to Jewdwine, modernity incarnate, the living spirit of revolt, to be bound down with difficulty by the editorial hand.  Looking back on the record of the past four years Jewdwine marvelled how and why it was that he had kept him.  A score of times he had been tempted to dismiss him after some fresh enormity; and a score of times Rickman had endeared himself by the seductive graces of his style.  But Rickman on the staff of Metropolis was, Jewdwine considered, Rickman in the right place.  Not only could he now be allowed to let loose his joyous individuality without prejudice to the principles of that paper (for the paper strictly speaking would have no principles), but he was indispensable if it was to preserve the distinction which its editor still desired.  Jewdwine had no need of the poet; but of the journalistic side of Rickman he had endless need.  It was a baser faculty, but his care must be to develop it, to train it, to handle it judiciously, until by handling he had made it pliable to all the uses of his paper.  Jewdwine had a genius for licking young men into shape.  He could hardly recognize that band of awkward and enthusiastic followers in his present highly disciplined and meritorious staff.  None of them were like Rickman; none of them had done anything to rouse an uneasy suspicion of their genius.  Still, none of them were precisely fitted for his present purpose.  Rickman the poet, of course, you could not lick into shape.  His shape, plastic only under the divine fire, was fashioned by the fingers of the god.  But Rickman the journalist, once get him on to the right journal, would prove to be made of less unmanageable stuff.  If he had not hitherto proved manageable, that was no doubt because hitherto he had been employed on the wrong journal.

And yet, when he came to discuss the change of programme with the different members of his staff (some of whom he was giving their dismissal), it was with Rickman (whom he proposed to retain) that he felt the most acute embarrassment.  Rickman, although at the moment dining with Jewdwine, was so abominably direct.

“I see,” he said, after listening to a lengthy exposition of the proprietors’ view; “they want to popularize the thing.”

Jewdwine winced perceptibly.  “Well, hardly,” said he.  “In that case they would have been obliged to change their editor.  We certainly want to draw a rather larger public than we have done; and to do that we must make some concessions to modernity.  There’s no doubt that the paper’s interests have suffered from its tradition.  We have been too exclusive, too detached.  We can no longer afford to be detached.  We propose to abandon the tradition in favour of—­well—­of a somewhat broader attitude.”  He looked keenly at Rickman, as if he defied him to put it any other way.