“He is a classic—­he’s the only man whose opinion’s really worth having at this moment.”

“Whom are we talking about?  Jewdwine?  Or the editor of Metropolis?”

“I’m talking about Jewdwine.  I happen to know him, if you don’t.”

“And I’m talking about the other fellow whom you don’t happen to know a little bit.  Nobody cares a tuppenny damn about his opinion, except the fools who read it and the knaves who buy it.”

“And who do you imagine those people are?”

“Most of them are publishers, I believe.  But a good few are authors, I regret to say.”

“Authors have cheek enough for most things; but I should like to see one suggesting to Jewdwine that he should sell him his opinion.”

“My dear fellow, anybody may suggest it.  That’s what he’s there for, since he turned his opinion on to the streets.  Whether you get a pretty opinion or not depends on the length of your purse.”

“Why don’t you call it bribery at once?”

“Because bribery’s too harsh a term to apply to an editor, mon semblable, mon frere; but in a woman, or a parliamentary candidate, it might possibly be called corruption.”

“Thanks.  Well, you’ve made me a very generous offer, Maddox, so generous that I’m glad you’ve explained yourself before I took it.  For after that, you know, it would have been rather awkward for me to have to tell you you’re a liar!”

“You consider me a liar, do you?” said Maddox in a mild dispassionate voice.

“Certainly I do, when you say these thing about Jewdwine.”

“How about Rankin?  He says them.”

“Then Rankin’s a liar, too!”

“And Stables?”

“And Stables—­if he says them.”

“My dear Rickman, everybody says them; only they don’t say them to you.  We can’t all be liars.”

“There’s a difference, I admit.  Anybody who says them is a liar; and anybody who says them to me is a d——­d liar!  That’s the difference.”

Whereupon Maddox intimated (as honour indeed compelled him) that Rickman was the sort of young fool for which there is no salvation.  And by the time Rickman had replied with suitable hyperbole; and Maddox, because of the great love he bore to Rickman, had observed that if Rickman chose to cut his confused throat he might do so without its being a matter of permanent regret to Maddox; and Rickman, because of the great love he bore to Maddox, had suggested his immediate departure for perdition, it was pretty clearly understood that Rickman himself preferred to perish, everlastingly perish, rather than be connected even remotely with Maddox and his paper.  And on that understanding they separated.