Of the paragraph the less said the better.  As for the article it was such a song of jubilation as one poet sings over the genius of another; and nothing that he had ever done for Metropolis delighted him so much as the making of it.  He sent the proofs to Jewdwine as usual with a note.  “Here they are.  I think I’ve been discreet.  I’ve done what I could for Mr. Fulcher, but, as you’ll see, I’ve dealt nobly with young Paterson, as he deserves.”  As he heard nothing from Jewdwine, he could only suppose that the chief was satisfied, and he could not help reflecting with some complacency that no doubt old Maddox would be satisfied too.

The next thing that happened was that he was cut by Maddox at the Junior Journalists. (It was on a Saturday, and Metropolis, the number, had appeared the night before).  Cut unmistakably, with a thrust from the blue eyes and an expressive turning of the enormous shoulders.  A number once issued from his hands Rickman never looked at it again if he could help it, and he never troubled to look at it now.  He simply regarded Maddox’s behaviour as unaccountable.  In the hope of lighting on some explanation he called at Tavistock Place one Sunday afternoon, at a time when he was pretty sure of finding Miss Roots alone.  He wanted to know, he said, what was the matter with Maddy.  Apparently Miss Roots had something the matter with her too, for her only answer was to hand him stiffly a copy of Metropolis with the pages scored in blue pencil at his own article.  He took it with a radiant and confiding smile, a smile that assumed such a thoroughly delightful understanding between him and Miss Roots that the little lady, who had evidently counted on a very different effect, was put to some intellectual confusion.  She noticed that as he read the smile vanished and gave place, first to an expression of absolute bewilderment, and then to a furious flush, whether of shame or indignation she could not tell, but it looked (again to her confusion) uncommonly like both.

“I see,” he said quietly, and laid the paper aside.

What he had seen was that, save for a few ingenious transpositions, the two reviews stood very much as he had written them.  The only striking alteration was that Mr. Fulcher had got the article and young Paterson the paragraph.

“Oh, you see, do you?” said Miss Roots bitterly.  “That’s more than I do.”

“I see there’s been some astonishing mistake.”  For one moment he exonerated Jewdwine and embraced the wild hypothesis of a printer’s error.  He took back the accursed journal; as he held it his hand trembled uncontrollably.  He glanced over the notices again.  No.  It was not after this fashion that the printers of the Metropolis were wont to err.  He recognized the familiar hand of the censor, though it had never before accomplished such an incredible piece of editing as this.